The Lafayette Sword (2 page)

2

Rue Saint Jacques de la Boucherie, Paris

March 13, 1355

N
icolas Flamel heard the clamor rising from the banks of the Seine River and decided to shut his shop. People were already running toward the water. Shouts and the sound of horse hooves hitting cobblestones filled the air. The wind was picking up, too, carrying the acrid smell of resin. All of Paris seemed el
ectrified.

As Flamel closed his shutters, he saw that other bourgeois were doing the same thing. One could never be too careful. The English were encamped a few leagues from the city and could attack at any time. And then there were the common people, the poor who lived in the faubourgs, whose fever of revolt, exacerbated by famine and taxes, always ended in pillages and bl
ood baths.

Flamel took down the parchments displayed in front of his shop and put each fine work away. He had something for everyone: war chronicles, prayer books, and stories of chivalry, all illustrated in fine gold powder. Every day, his workers plumbed their imaginations to create angelic Virgins, warriors with bloody weapons, and dragons spitting fire in the shadowy depths o
f caverns.

“Neighbor, do you fear for your p
aintings?”

Flamel turned around. Master Maillard, a furrier, was staring at him with mockery in
his eyes.

“My kind neighbor, I don't like the air we breathe tonight. And I certainly don't like to take any risks. There are rumors o
f a riot.”

“True, true. They lit the fires a little too early tonight,” the furrier answered. “But one must keep the people entertained even before the sho
w begins.”

“My neighbor and friend, I fail to understand. Your language is as obscure as a tree in a pitch-bla
ck night.”

“What? You haven't heard what's happened? What world do you live in, with your nose always in your books? For that matter, yo
u should…”

Master Maillard lowered his voice. “It's not good to spend too much time with books these days. One doesn't know what could be hidden in them. Our Holy Mother Church cannot check everything. Who knows? An apprentice could be copying one of the Devil's gospels in your very
own shop.”

“Master
Maillard!”

“Lower your voice, my neighbor. I was just giving you some advice, that's all. Books are under suspicion these days. Too many heretics are spreading their doctrines on parchment. Too many witches are writing down their accursed rites. You'll see. Soon we'll be burning books, along with their
authors.”

“Yet, my dear Master Maillard, none of that explains what's happening at th
e moment.”

The furrier looked at him with incomprehension written all over his face. “So you really do
n't know?”

“No, I don't. I spent all week with my aids recopying a volume of Aristotle's
Physics
for the university. The illustrations were very costly, and not only in man hours. I had to import a special blue powder from the Orien
t. There—”

Master Maillard made the sign of the cross. “Don't talk to me about those monsters. Those black-skinned Saracens are damned to hell. Don't you know they worship a goat-headed god named Baphomet? The Templars, cursed as they are, adored that impious idol and paid for it with the
ir lives.”

3

Grand Orient Masonic Hall, Paris

Present day

A
ntoine Marcas smoothed his apron and made sure his double-edged sword was secure at
his side.

Next to the elevator, a display system similar to the ones at airports informed him that the meeting would be in Lafayette Temple. The 9 p.m. initiation ceremony was the only gathering scheduled for the night. The seventeen other temples in the building were closed. Marcas checked his watch. Only five mor
e minutes.

“Well, my brother, I see you're a fan of modern technology. So what's next? Skyped initiation ce
remonies?”

Startled, Marcas turned around. A man in a wheelchair was smili
ng at him.

“Paul! I didn't
hear you.”

Paul de Lambre, a physician who had lost the use of his legs in a car accident, was a descendant of the illustrious Marquis de Lafayette and a high-ranking
Freemason.

“You wouldn't believe what they're doing with wheelchairs these days,” Paul said, tapping one of the wheels. “This one's made of carbon fiber: strong, flexible, and darned-near silent. Four detachable components, and the footrests even have LED lights. That means I can see you in the dark, but you can't hear m
e coming.”

“As long as you're being sarcastic, that's a good sign, my
brother.”

A shadow seemed to cross the man's face, and his eyes became serious. “The signs are not very good right now. I have something on my mind, Antoine, and since you're a police detective and a brother, I think you're the person I should be talk
ing with.”

Marcas studied the man. “Of course. The ceremony is about to begin. Why don't we get together afterward? Right now it's time to go to the temple of your glorious ancestor. That must be quite an experience
for you.”

Paul de Lambre's jaw stiffened. “You could put it that way,” he said as he spinning his wheelchai
r around.

The hooded man wearing the Masonic apron waited in the darkness of the closet. He fiddled nervously with the ceremonial sword as he ticked off the minutes. Finally, he took a deep breath, opened the closet door, and made sure the hallway was empty. He stepped out of th
e shadows.

“I am the Sword of Light. I march in the night,” he chanted in a low
monotone.

He advanced noiselessly. Slipping through the dark corridors was child's play. Tricking the security system had been a joke. It was even intoxicating. He'd been exploring this prodigious labyrinth for at least a dozen nights. Each time he'd stop just before reaching the chamber of reflection. Then he'd leave. Only one time had he crossed paths with a brother, and that hadn't caused any problems. He knew the building's strange topography by heart, and now he could make his way over it blindfolded. The tangle of hallways, the crooked floors, and the myriad temples in this vast structure made him feel like he was moving on a gigantic
movie set.

But this would be the last night he'd go unnoticed. His quest would begin with s
acrifices.

He could hear the voice again. Perhaps i
t was his.

“I kill, and I die. I kill, and I am bo
rn again.”

He took the stairs two by two and reached the next floor in a matter of seconds. He smiled in the
darkness.

“I am the ch
osen one.”

He was on pins and needles as he recited the ritual words. The taste of blood filled his
dry mouth.

4

Rue Saint-Jacques de la Boucherie

March 13, 1355

F
lamel sighed. The Templars and the Saracens. The furrier was narrow-minded and supe
rstitious.

“Master Maillard, Baphomet isn't the Saracens' god, but a simple idol, nothing more. And the Templars were tortured. Chained to a stone and subjected to God knows what, they would have confessed to
anything.”

“Not another word. Do you want to end up burned at t
he stake?”

Flamel made the sign of the cross. It had been many years since anyone in Paris had been sent to the pyre. The king had little desire to invoke the sentence. The last executions by burning had taken place forty years earlier, with the Templars. And the grand master's curse on the royal family and its descendants still resonated in the minds of the people. Since then, France had known nothing but woe: the collapse of the House of Capet, the English invasion, and the plague, which had decimated th
e country.

“To order such a punishment, King John would need a very good reason,” Flamel said. “God does not forgive the burning of the
innocent.”

Master Maillard chuckled. “It's a Jew who's being burned. That's what the uproar by the river is all about. And who better to burn? He's a scholar, from what I've heard. From Spain. Our king, whose goodness is without limits, even hosted the man. Jews know much. Don't forget that they were the ones who crucified our Lord Jesus Christ. Since then, the Devil has showered them wit
h favors.”

“But—”

“Our king was deceived,” Master Maillard said, his face hard. “That is all. And when he realized he had opened his home to evil, he called for an inq
uisition.”

Flamel
shivered.

“You do know what that means, don't you? And that Jew didn't come alone. He brought his daug
hter and…”

Across the street, a door opened with an otherworldly creak. For years, the façade had been mute, the windows boarded up, and the door nailed shut. Rumor had it that the building belonged to the Dominicans, who had inherited it and let it fall into ruin. But since Christmas, someone had been liv
ing there.

A hooded man dressed in black emerged and slipped down the street. He was heading toward
the Seine.

Master Maillard grabbed Flamel's sleeve. “For the salvation of our souls and the survival of our bodies, pray that he didn't
hear us.”

Flamel was wondering if he did, indeed, spend too much time with his books. Even his wife, Lady Perenelle, who mingled with gossips every day at the market, had said nothing about this new
neighbor.

“Master Maillard, you speak in enigmas. First you allude to a pyre, and then you tremble at the sight of
that man.”

The furrier waited for the stranger to turn the corner. “My dear neighbor, I simply do not like coincidences, with that mystery man dressed in clothing as black
as death.”

“That hood was hiding
his face.”

“He wears it to remain anonymous and keep himself safe. Who knows how many people would assault him if they knew wh
o he was!”

“Master Maillard, would you, for the love of God, tell me who he is?” The usually calm Flamel was getting
perturbed.

“He's the new
torturer.”

Nicolas Flamel visualized a scene of hell sculpted on a cathedral
tympanum.

His neighbor continued. “That's why the Dominicans gave him that house. You know they are the ones charged with tracking heresy. For that, they need a powerful man, a man no one c
an touch.”

Flamel remembered another scene: a body washed up alongside the Seine. The man's arms and legs were hanging by threads. His belly was filled with water, and his mouth was frozen
in terror.

“The work of the torturer,” a bargeman had
told him.

Master Maillard checked the locks on his house. The
Angelus
bell rang out from the N
otre Dame.

“Let us give thanks that we are good Christians and sons of the Church. The night will be long for some. You have worked hard this week. Come with me to the river to see this Jew be punished. It will be a great joy for all the good people of Paris to witness the s
pectacle.”

5

Grand Orient Masonic Hall

Evening of the initiation

M
arcas and Paul de Lambre got out of the elevator on the four
th floor.

“Why don't we get a drink after the ceremony?” Paul said. “We can have t
hat talk.”

“I'd be happy to. I really didn't want to stay for the dinner anyway. They go on f
or hours.”

“Good. I know a spot where we can have a private conversation. I'll look for you after the initiation. I'll need to pick something up from the librarian and see the general secretary first, and then I'll
be free.”

Marcas had to quicken his pace to keep up with his brother's state-of-the-art wheelchair. “I'll wait for you at the café across th
e street.”

“Thanks. I came tonight largely because I knew you'd be here. The worshipful master gave me the list of a
ttendees.”

Marcas put his hand on the man's shoulder. Paul stopped and looked
up at him.

“Is something wrong?” Mar
cas asked.

“I'll explain later,” Paul
answered.

The two men turned down a long hallway, and a group of brothers came into view. The tyler waved, and they entered the Lafayet
te Temple.

Marcas never tired of the experience. Shiny swords lined the temple's north and south walls, silently guarding the Masonic secrets. The steel blades gleamed in the half-light. They had been there since the temple was founded and had witnessed a thousand or more initiations. Tonight they would spring again from the shadows. Between the swords were emblems from the French R
evolution.

He turned his attention away from décor as the senior warden took his place at the entrance. Paul had stopped his chair to the left of the man and was pointing out one of the swords, which was then handed to him with utmost care. Marcas positioned himself near the rows of participants. Tonight, he was the grand expert and would escort the initiate from the chamber of r
eflection.

The worshipful master took his place under the Egyptian eye and recited the opening words. “As it is time, and we are of age, let
us begin.”

One floor down, near the chambers of reflection, the hooded man waited silently, glancing at the peeling paint and cracked walls. And to think that many uninitiated thought the Freemasons were rolling in gold. He'd been everywhere in this labyrinth and knew it needed serious renovation. He almost broke out
laughing.

He approached chamber where tonight's initiate waited. He could see the hallway the grand expert would come down in fifteen minutes. He'd have more than enough time to commit the first murder with a beauty that no one would ever forget. The second would be even more t
heatrical.

Never before had such profanation been committed in this sacred place. He would savor the feeling of power. The hooded man was remembering his own initiation, when he found himself alone with a grinning skull in a room lit only by a candle. He recalled how his hand was shaking almost uncontrollably as he wrote his philosophical testament and waited for someone to escort him to the temple. He knew exactly what the initiate was doing an
d feeling.

“I kill, and I die. I kill, and I am bo
rn again.”

The man's excitemen
t mounted.

Killing wasn't new to him. A month earlier he had practiced on two homeless men. It was training. Flesh to dispose of. Each had tried to defend himself when he saw the black bludgeon come out. This time his first victim would be consenting. Obedient and totally blind. He would go to his death in trust. And see the Great Architect of the Universe in the absolute perfection of
his works.

And that was more beautiful than anyt
hing else.

“Am I not the Sword
of Light?”