‘God, I hate puzzles,’ he muttered to himself. Chewing on his pen, he gazed back at the notebook for inspiration. His eye settled on the picture of the alchemist with his cauldron. Beneath the cauldron was the fire. Beneath the fire was the inscription ANBO.
Then it hit him. Of course, stupid. ANBO was the coded form of IGNE, Latin for fire. If ANBO was IGNE, then it meant that the alphabet had been lined up against alternating letters of the key line. When it reached the end it simply started again at the beginning, filling in the gaps.
26 25 24 23 22 21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
I G N E N A T U R A R E N O V A T U R I N T E G R A
A N B O C P D Q E R F S G T H U I V J W K X L Y M Z
Set against the numbers running backwards from 1-26, this gave a totally different key to work with. ‘OK,’ he muttered, ‘here we go, one more time.’ N18 U11R, the code read. Based on his new key, N could be B or C or G or K; 18 could only be E. Moving on to the second word, U could be Q or V; 11 could only be U; and R could be any of E, F, J or M.
He stared fixedly at his scribbles, starting to feel a little snow-blind. But then his heart gave a jump. Wait a minute. A shape was forming. Out of the available letters he could spell out two distinct words. CE QUE. THAT WHICH. He wrote the key out more neatly.
And now the hidden message began to reveal itself quickly as he used the key to unlock the code, picking out the words from the available letters.
i. N 18: CE
ii. U 11 R QUE
iii. 9 E 11 E VOUS
iv. 22 V 18 A 22 V 18 A CHERCHEZ
v. 22 R 15 O CEST
vi. 22 R LE
vii. 13 A 18 E 23 A TRESOR
viii. 20 R 15 DES
ix. N 26 O 12 I 17 R 15 CATHARES
WHAT YOU ARE SEARCHING FOR IS
THE TREASURE OF THE CATHARS
The excitement of his discovery gave Ben a new surge of energy. He flipped through the notebook pages, looking for more messages that could cast further light on what he’d found. At the bottom of the page where he’d found the coded word TRESOR was a block of three more encrypted words.
22E 18T 22 E 18I 26 T12 U20 A18
22E 18T 22E 18 I–26–T12 U20 A18. The pattern was looking familiar now–but when he applied his key to crack the message, his heart sank.
There was no way to create meaning out of it. COEICSEW A IHVDRE?
All right, you old bastard, you can’t throw me off that easily. Beginning to understand the mischievous tricks Fulcanelli seemed to enjoy playing, he reversed the key, now running the numbers forwards along the key line and the alternating alphabet backwards. This threw up a very different reading.
Running across the line and scavenging odd letters from the vertical columns, he was suddenly able to form intelligible words in French.
CHERCHEZ A…
SEARCH AT…
Only the last word baffled him. It could have been any of RHEDIE, WHEDIE, WHEDAE, RHEDAE, or a number of weirder alternatives such as CHJKE which obviously made no sense at all.
He scratched his head. Search at… Judging by the context, the mysterious third word had to be a place name: search at somewhere. He looked up all the possible alternatives on his map, but he couldn’t find any. Suddenly remembering that there was a selection of local guide books for sale downstairs in the hallway of the boarding house, he raced down the stairs, bought one from the landlady which covered the whole of the Languedoc, and ran back to his room already flipping through the index. But none of the names existed there either.
‘Fuck!’ He hurled the book across the room. It burst open in mid-air with a flap of pages, crashed into the wall and bounced back into a vase of flowers on the mantelpiece. The vase toppled and smashed. ‘Fuck!’ he shouted more loudly.
Then a thought came to him that made his anger drop away, instantly forgotten. What about the codes that Rheinfeld had been repeating to himself in the recording? Would those give him an answer? He tore open the pad again and worked out the five letters. He almost laughed when he saw the result.
KLAUS
So Rheinfeld had cracked it, the poor bastard. Ben wondered whether the German had been driven over the edge of madness by the frustration of not knowing the rest. He was beginning to understand exactly how the man had felt.
As he mopped up the spilt water and picked up the limp flowers and broken pieces of porcelain, cursing under his breath, something else suddenly occurred to him. What an idiot–of course. He dropped everything and ran over to rummage in his bag. Inside it he found the fake medieval map, depicting the old Languedoc, which had been hanging on Anna’s wall.
He unrolled the ornately drawn script and spread it across the table.
When he found the place, he checked its location against the modern map. There was no doubt about it. The ancient name for the medieval village of Rennes-le-Château, not twenty miles from St-Jean, was Rhédae. He banged his fist on the table. CHERCHEZ A RHEDAE suddenly had a new and very real meaning: SEARCH AT RENNES-LE-CHTEAU.
And, according to his guidebook, Rennes-le-Château was the site that legend associated most strongly with the lost treasure of the Cathars.
58
As he drove through the rugged countryside along the D118 heading towards Rennes-le-Château, Ben was thinking about what he’d read about the place in his new guidebook. It was a name he’d vaguely recalled from some half-watched television documentary, but he hadn’t realized that the once sleepy medieval hamlet was now one of southern France’s most sensational tourist attractions. His guidebook read: ‘an important centre for seekers of holy treasure and magical phenomena. Whether or not you believe in the occult, kabbalistic ideas, UFOs or crop circles, there is no denying the strange mystery of Rennes-le-Château’
The enigma of Rennes-le-Château rested on the story of a man called Bérenger Saunière. He’d been the humble village priest who, in 1891 during a renovation of the old church, was said to have discovered four parchments sealed inside wooden tubes. The parchments were dated between 1244 and the 1780s, and, so the story went, had led Father Saunière to find a great secret.
Nobody knew what Saunière had found, but immediately after this discovery the priest had seemingly been transformed from a pauper to a millionaire overnight. Where the money had come from remained a mystery. Some sources said that he’d found the fabled treasure of the Cathars–a fortune of gold that the heretics had hidden from their oppressors in the thirteenth century. Others claimed that the treasure wasn’t money or gold, but a great secret, some kind of ancient knowledge, that the Church had bribed Saunière to keep quiet.
Unsurprisingly, rumours of treasure and the obscurity of the facts had combined to provoke a hysterical flurry of interest when the story had hit the media in the early 1980s. It had sparked a feverish cult following for anything to do with the mystery of Rennes-le-Château. Mystics, hippies and treasure-seekers flocked there in droves every summer. The Languedoc tourist industry had been Cathar-crazy ever since.
Ben turned off the main road at Couiza and the car wound up a tortuous mountain path. After four kilometres of increasingly wild scenery he arrived at the little village of Rennes-le-Château.
The church was set back a few metres from the street behind an iron gate. Beside it was a tourist centre which marked a strange contrast to the ancient, crumbling medieval village. There was a tour in progress, a crowd of camera-snapping travellers following a guide. Ben joined them, and from the buzz of conversation he realized that they were British.
‘And now, ladies and gentlemen,’ droned the languid tour guide, ‘if you would all like to come this way, we will enter the mysterious church itself. Now, like all medieval churches the building faces east-west and the floor plan is shaped like a cross. The altar is…’
Ben followed as the group filtered in through the narrow doorway and milled around inside, gazing about them at the florid décor. Immediately inside the entrance was a vivid statue of a staring horned
demon. Above him stood four angels, looking out across the church in the direction of the altar.
The guide motioned towards the demonic figure. His voice echoed in the church. ‘This frightening fellow here is believed to represent the demon Asmodeus, custodian of secrets and guardian of…hidden treasures.’ This seemed to delight the crowd but Ben could already see it wasn’t going to enlighten him. He broke away from the group and walked back into the sunshine, kicking a stone across the dusty street in frustration.
Rennes-le-Château was perched high on a rocky hillside overlooking a sweeping panoramic landscape. At the western edge of the village the ground fell away in a sheer drop of escarpment. Ben stood on the edge of the cliff and looked out across the hills and valleys, shielding his lighter from the wind as he lit a cigarette. He sighed. He wondered where Roberta was now. It had been years since he’d felt so painfully alone.
Here and there in the distance he could see quite a number of old towers and ruined buildings, as well as a couple of ancient ochre stone villages. Far below him in the arid valley was the village that his map told him was Esperaza. He smiled at the name. Hope. His eye followed the horizon to some faraway ruins, which the map identified as Coustaussa.
A memory stirred him. It had been a scene just like this one. They’d been standing high on the hillside near her villa, looking across the valleys. He remembered what she’d told him. In some special place, the relative positions of ancient sites gave a clue to a secret that would bring great wisdom and power to the one who solved the mystery.
‘What were you trying to tell me, Anna?’ he muttered as he looked out to the horizon. Fulcanelli. The Cathars. Lost treasures. It was all linked, had to be. Had the alchemist discovered the ancient scroll and cross around here somewhere? Was that why Usberti had chosen this part of France for his Gladius Domini headquarters?
He wandered around the village a while, dragging his feet. Not far from the church he found a little tourist café that sold postcards and souvenirs. The place was almost empty, and the coffee smelled good. He took a table in the far corner and sat sipping on a cup while he tried to get his thoughts in order. What the hell was it all about? He pulled Rheinfeld’s notebook from its plastic covering and flicked it open. His eye landed once more on that odd rhyming stanza.
These Temple walls cannot be broken
The armies of Satan pass through unaware
The Raven guards there a secret unspoken
Known only to the seeker faithful and fair
Maybe it was the wild thinking of a burned-out, sleep-deprived brain, or perhaps it was a ray of clarity piercing through all the fog of alchemical riddles. But a sudden thought hit him like a thunderbolt.
He flipped back through the notebook until he found the twin-circle design from the dagger blade. As he’d remembered, what distinguished the notebook’s version of the diagram from the blade inscription was the raven symbol that marked out its centre. If Rheinfeld had copied this accurately from the original, it meant that Fulcanelli had deliberately added the new feature to the motif. It had to be significant–but how?
The raven guards there a secret unspoken.
He looked again at the other page, where the same raven symbol appeared together with the word DOMUS. The House of the Raven.
He sat and pondered. A hypothesis: if the House of the Raven–leaving aside for the moment what it actually was– stood at the centre of the geometric twin-circle shape, was it possible that the twin-circle shape represented an actual place? A place, as Anna had hinted, marked out by lines superimposed on the physical landscape and using ancient sites as reference points?
It seemed crazy, but in its own way it made the most perfect sense.
He went back to the rhyming stanza. These temple walls cannot be broken.
What kind of temple walls couldn’t be broken? Not the stone kind, that was for sure, judging by the number of old ruins around here. The crusading armies had been ruthlessly thorough in destroying the strongholds and churches of their heretic enemies.
But then another idea hit him. What if the temple walls had never been built in stone at all–had never intended to be? What if they were the lines of an invisible geometric ground-plan that lay across the land, known only to the faithful and fair who were in on the secret? The marauding armies wouldn’t even have known such a temple was there. Because its walls were invisible. It was a virtual temple.
In effect, it was a map. Whatever the House of the Raven was, it was at the centre of the layout and it seemed to be a marker for something. Maybe something that could get you into a lot of trouble. Secret alchemical treasure? Usberti was obsessed with finding it. The Nazis had lusted after it. Perhaps those who had launched the holocaust against the Cathars had been looking for it too.
Ben’s mind was racing now. He ripped his road map out of his bag, unfolded the flapping square of paper and spread it across the plastic table. His finger landed on Rennes-le-Château. This was the place Fulcanelli had guided him to. This was where the search would begin, at the very nucleus of Cathar country and the hub of the mystery of their lost treasure.
Using the edge of the laminated café table menu as a ruler, he started tracing out tentative lines in pencil on the map. He soon began to notice patterns emerging.
St Sermin–Antugnac–La Pique–Bugarach.
Couiza–Le Bezu.
Esperaza–Rennes-les-Bains.
And at least a dozen more. All were straight lines that perfectly connected the nearby churches, villages and castle ruins directly through the spot where he was sitting, the heart of Rennes-le-Château. This bizarre find seemed to confirm that he was looking in the right place. More lines, and soon he was building up an extensive grid that stretched bewilderingly across the entire area.
Visitors to the café came and went, and he didn’t notice them. His coffee cooled at his elbow. He was transfixed by the dizzying maze of controlled complexity that began to unfold under his pencil. After the first hour, he had established a perfect circle whose circumference connected four ancient churches in the area, Les Sauzils, St Ferriol, Granès and Coustaussa. To his astonishment, his projected lines generated a six-pointed star whose points fitted perfectly within the circle and touched exactly on the first two churches. The first circle centred precisely on Esperaza, the village in the valley below Rennes-le-Château.
After another hour the café staff were beginning to wonder how long the strange customer was going to sit there scribbling on his map. Ben was oblivious of them. Now a second circle was generated, and he traced it out with a steady hand. It centred on a place called Lavaldieu–Valley of God. The circles were identical in size and lay diagonally NW / SE across the map. He traced out more lines and shook his head in amazement as the complex alchemical symbol slowly revealed itself.
The hexagram in the Esperaza circle had one of its southern points at Les Sauzils and another at St Ferriol. The pentagram in the Lavaldieu circle had its two western points at Granès and Coustaussa. A perfect straight line connecting Peyrolles to Blanchefort to Lavaldieu provided the southern point of the pentagram where it touched the edge of the Lavaldieu circle. Lastly, another perfect straight line connecting Lavaldieu at the centre with the more distant castle of Arques, gave the position for the eastern most point of the star.
He sat back and contemplated the heavily lined and scored map. He could hardly believe what he was seeing. The twin star-circles were complete. The diagram was perfect in its geometry–the virtual temple, right there on a cheap filling-station road-map.
Whatever civilization had created the phenomenon, long, long before Fulcanelli had stumbled upon it, must have been awesomely skilled in surveying, geometry, and mathematics. The logistics of just spinning this elaborate web of design across a harsh, mountainous landscape were mind-boggling enough, let alone the extreme lengths they must have gone to in deliberately building churches and entire settlements on the exact locations marked out by the invisible sweep of a circle
or the intersection of two imaginary lines. And all this just to set up a concealed location for some cryptic piece of knowledge? What know ledge was worth that kind of trouble?
Maybe he was going to find out. He was walking in Fulcanelli’s historical footprints. Now all he had to do was to find the centre point, and that should give him the exact location of whatever it was the alchemist had discovered. He drew out two extra lines that cut diagonally and symmetrically through the motif in an elongated X, marking out the dead centre.
‘X marks the spot,’ he murmured. The centre point was close to Rennes-le-Château. It couldn’t be much more than a couple of kilometres, approximately north-west.
But what would be waiting for him when he got there? There was only one way to find out. He was getting close now.
59
Ben set off across country. Starting out from the western edge of the village he discovered a winding route down the hillside. With stones and loose dirt sliding under his feet he scrambled downwards. Sometimes the bone-dry ground gave way under him and he slipped a few metres, struggling to keep his balance. By the time he reached the tree line a hundred metres below, the going was firmer and branches offered a handhold down the last of the slope. The trees were sparse at first, but as the ground levelled out they became a dense forest.
He picked a leafy path between the tightly clustered conifers, oaks and beeches. The birds were singing in the trees above him and the milky rays of the autumn sun flickered through the green and gold foliage. For the first time in days he was almost able to clear his mind of troubled thoughts. Though he missed her badly, it was a relief to know that Roberta was safely out of the way. Whatever happened, she’d be all right.
Beyond the wooded valley the ground began to rise again. A kilometre away across a rocky plateau, an escarpment sloped dramatically upwards to a high ridge. He saw that his route was going to take him straight over the top of it. He walked on steadily through the rocks, ignoring the thorny shrubs that caught at his ankles. The jagged ridge loomed closer.