The Omega Factor(61)
Kelsey sat silent as her prioress told her things, most of which she already knew. The study of the Virgin Mary was mandatory for all novices in the Congregation of Saint-Luke.
“Then,” Kelsey added, “having completed the course of her earthly life, as a divine gift to her as the Mother of God, her body and soul were taken up into the glory of heaven. That’s what Pius XII proclaimed in 1950.”
“And that bold declaration was backed up by papal infallibility,” her prioress said. “The pope is never wrong when it comes to dogma, and Pius’ Munificentissimus Deus was just that. He emphasized Mary’s unity with her divine son and, as his mother, she is the mother of his church, which is his body. She is the new Eve, a term he used three times, making Christ the new Adam. Her ascension was the final bodily resurrection promised to all Christians. So she was received into heaven, the recipient of corporeal glory.”
The older woman paused.
“But, Kelsey, what if Pius XII was wrong?”
Chapter 39
Bernat had felt at peace being back near Montségur. He’d lived his entire life within the Languedoc, born and raised in the mountains toward the west, but growing into a man in Toulouse. He’d always made a point to stay near Gerard Vilamur, never allowing the wayward prelate to venture too far out of range. For a while Vilamur had been a few hundred kilometers to the north in Albi, serving as bishop. But an elevation to archbishop and a return to Toulouse had proven ideal.
He’d worked hard establishing his auction house as one of good repute. Other houses, those with grand international reputations, always possessed larger and more valuable inventories. They also produced steady, astronomical sales. They were leaders in fine arts and in bringing lost treasures back to light, their collections making headlines and appearing in publications for museum and gallery professionals, artists, and historians. Places like Sotheby’s, Christie’s, Beijing Poly International, and Heritage. His business occupied the next tier down. One that focused on regional art and estate sales, branching out into real estate and racehorses. He’d never realized such a robust market existed for the sale of horses bred to run. But there he’d made a respectable fortune and was known throughout Europe as the man who could find a winner.
He was blessed with an eye for business and made even more money with smart investments in banks and wineries. True, this world, and all its physical attributes, was evil and he would eventually flee it. But this also wasn’t the thirteenth century and Catharism had adapted to the times. Being nearly wiped out brought about a few changes in doctrine. Physical things were still evil, but some were necessary tools, needed for both existence and survival.
Like money.
The trick was not to allow that evil to consume you and to eventually shed yourself of it all.
Personally, he did not collect what was valuable or what might accrue in value through the years. His eye was drawn only to what spoke to him. Yes, he possessed the requisite amount of paintings and sculptures that could always be sold for profit. But the vast majority of his personal art collection related to the Languedoc, created by local artists, reflecting its long history of expression and repression. Becoming involved with the restoration of the Just Judges’ reproduction had been conceived as a way to finally bring him onto the world stage.
He and Andre had left Montségur and driven north about twenty-five kilometers, enjoying dinner in Mirepoix, with its magnificent arcaded square, bordered by houses dating from the thirteenth century. It had been a Cathar stronghold until Simon de Montfort captured it in September 1209 and gave it to his most loyal lieutenant.
How utterly arrogant.
Darkness had come during the meal, which they’d enjoyed at one of the outdoor cafés. Then they’d driven west from town, toward Foix, venturing off the highway into the thick woods where a bonfire burned. Gathered around were about thirty men and women, all dressed in black robes. Each was a Perfectus who served a community of believers. They existed in secret and kept their identities and beliefs within the Cathar community. Recruits, like Andre, appeared from time to time, and each was dealt with individually. Thankfully, modern society allowed a huge amount of religious freedom and few cared anymore what people worshiped, so long as those beliefs were not forced onto others. Not all that dissimilar to the Languedoc before the crusaders arrived.
Once every three months the Perfecti gathered at different spots across the region to talk, pray, and communicate. When together they formed the Elders and made decisions relative to their ever-evolving religion. Being a Cathar came with rewards in the form of peace and solitude, a contentment that few in the world experienced. That was one of the reasons he’d been drawn to it, which helped with his inner demons. The other was its juxtaposition to the Catholic Church. A direct counter to Rome in every single way that mattered.
And that really appealed to him.
“This is an opportunity for you to meet others,” he said to Andre as they both donned robes. “Your first as a Perfectus. Some you know, but circulate around and introduce yourself to those you don’t. These are your peers now.”
Andre nodded and walked off.
He headed beyond the fire to an older man sitting alone in the dark on one of the wooden benches beneath the trees. The land for nearly a kilometer in every direction was owned by a believer, so the gathering was assured privacy. He walked over and sat on the bench beside Raymond Barbe, the oldest living Perfectus. How old? Nobody really knew. Most guessed ninety to ninety-five.