The Book of Love Page 9

  The men carried Madonna Magdalena, on the same linen stretcher that had held Jesus the day before, slowly and gingerly to the estate of Joseph of Arimathea. Luke, the blessed doctor, attended her and he was worried. Magdalena’s breathing was shallow, and beyond everything else she had endured, she was also heavy with child. She would have to be watched carefully. Now their prayers must be for her. When she was settled comfortably in a bed with her women around her, the men took their leave and met in Joseph’s private chambers.

  The purity of Maria’s love and devotion to Jesus moved all three men through the searing pain of their grief. She helped them to realize that the loss of their messiah did not have to equate with the loss of his message. Maria Magdalena had mastered and embodied the teachings of the Way, proving through her actions that love was stronger than death. She lived this truth every day of her existence. Together, Joseph of Arimathea, Nicodemus, and Luke pledged to protect her and to support her and the holy teachings in every way possible for the rest of her life, her children’s lives, and beyond. On that Holy Saturday, a bond was formed as the three men blended their blood and faith together in an unbreakable oath. They formed an alliance, one that would come to be known to the people as the Order of the Holy Sepulcher.

  The following morning, when the risen Jesus announced his resurrection to Madonna Magdalena, the three men knew they had taken an appropriate vow. All earthly remains of the master had disappeared.

  The men believed that this momentous occasion proved that Magdalena was his chosen successor to continue the teachings of the Way. Perhaps her extraordinary ministrations in the tomb had somehow aided in the holy and utterly awe-inspiring process of resurrection. Could it be that the pure power of love was all that was needed to create such a miracle? Who could know for sure? Such things were a matter of faith, and each man must come to his own understanding of God in his own way and in his own time.

  But these men were unique witnesses. The traditions and understandings that they would pass on to subsequent generations were based on their own experiences combined with the pure teachings of Jesus himself. They were the blessed founders of our Order.

  THE FOUNDATION OF THE ORDER OF THE HOLY SEPULCHER,

  AS TOLD IN THE LIBRO ROSSO

  Rome

  present day

  PANTHEON SQUARE, the Piazza della Rotonda, is one of the iconic tourist sites in Rome, dominated on one end as it is by the exquisitely domed ancient structure for which it is named. Over the course of two thousand years the Pantheon evolved as a place of worship, first by the Roman pagans and then by the devout followers of Catholicism. And while it had been consecrated to a number of gods through time, the feminine curvature of the magnificent dome for which it is justly famous was a tribute to the ancient goddesses.

  Divine female energy flows through the piazza. The center of Pantheon Square contains one of Rome’s great fountains, this one dominated by a 3,300-year-old Egyptian obelisk made of red granite. The monument was brought to Rome from Heliopolis to grace a temple of Isis, in honor of the goddess who was the mother of all life.

  Maureen’s hotel room overlooked this square, and it was at this fountain that she stared from her window while she waited for Peter to arrive with a verdict on the mysterious red book. She had been here for two days since leaving Orval. Tammy had stayed in Belgium, where Roland came to claim her so she would not have to make the long drive back to the Languedoc alone following her ordeal. She would be with Roland and Bérenger now. Maureen sighed, thinking of her unfinished reunion with Bérenger. She’d been a fool to dread it so and put it off for as long as she had, and she wondered if his patience with her and her wanderings was wearing thin.

  From her window now, she spotted Peter crossing the square, briefcase in hand.

  “Buona sera,” she called out to him, waving vigorously, then went downstairs to greet him at the elevator. Her heart was in her throat now. She could tell by the look on his face that their discovery was indeed an important one, but they had agreed for safety’s sake not to discuss it over the phone or in public.

  As they entered the elevator on the way to Maureen’s room, Peter asked her, “Remember what the little girl said to you in the dream? It is not what you think it is?”

  Maureen nodded. “It’s not the Book of Love.”

  “No, it’s not. But it appears to contain elements of the Book of Love, and certainly a number of references to it.”

  Maureen was digesting this, trying not to be disappointed as she opened the door to her room. She had to trust the process, and she knew better than to think the Book of Love would simply fall into her lap. Such a treasure must be earned.

  Peter smiled at her as he opened his briefcase and extracted a series of Xerox copies of the first set of parchment pages, and his preliminary translations of them.

  “Maureen Paschal, meet Matilda of Tuscany. What we have here is a previously undiscovered version of her life story, one written in her own hand.”

  Maureen squealed with delight, no longer disappointed. Her passion for the role of women in history was one of the driving forces in her life. To discover something of this magnitude was true treasure, worth more than gold.

  “Apparently, this is a family tradition,” Maureen observed as she scanned the pages. “We’re making quite a hobby out of discovering bloodline autobiographies.”

  “Don’t laugh. I think it literally is a family tradition, and an important one. It ultimately became necessary for certain high-ranking members of the bloodline to set the record straight because they were aware that the truth was going to die if they didn’t. And this is exactly what happened to Matilda, it seems. As you know, for centuries the ‘heretics’ didn’t commit anything to writing because it was too dangerous. But Matilda wasn’t just any heretic. She was a fearless one, and clearly a woman with a profound devotion to her spiritual mission, which was to preserve the truth. There is a biography of her in the Vatican archives, written by a monk called Donizone who was her contemporary and claimed to be her personal biographer. But he was a Benedictine and recorded history with an agenda, as all monks of his order did, and some of this biography is suspect. It reads like a polished PR piece straight from Rome. So ultimately I think she made a major decision to commit her own life to paper in her own hand as she was by all accounts incredibly well educated. Donizone refers to her as docta, which means exceptionally learned. And it wasn’t a term used loosely, and never for a woman. So she was very capable of recording her own life, with her perspective and feelings. But…it’s highly controversial, to say the least.”

  “You have read the entire document?”

  Peter shook his head. “Enough to know that what awaits us could be earth-shattering, but not enough to be able to tell you definitively who she was or what she had in her possession.”

  “But she talks about the Book of Love?”

  Peter nodded. “She does.”

  Maureen had a thousand questions and began to rattle them off at Peter, who laughed. “I’ll let Matilda tell you about it in her own words. Ready?”

  Peter picked up the translations and began to read.

  Mantua, Italy

  1052

  “NOT THAT STORY, Isobel! Tell me the other story. The one about the labyrinth.”

  Though she was six years old and uncommonly petite, Matilda possessed a will that completely belied her physical appearance. She stamped a tiny foot and tossed her mass of red hair imperiously as she continued to give orders to her nurse. “You know I love that story the most. I don’t want to hear any others. But stop before the bad part. I hate the bad part.”

  As the tiny countess of Canossa made a face to punctuate her distaste for the bad part, the lovely Lady Isobel of Lucca nodded patiently at her charge. Her delicate hands had wiped the birthing blood from this child’s face when she was a mere five seconds old, then had swaddled and cradled the baby as her own. Matilda had been in Isobel’s care since that early spring evening when th
e fiery infant drew her first bold breath and shrieked her arrival to the Tuscan countryside. For her father’s people, descended from the fierce Lombard warriors of northern Italy, the birth of a child on the vernal equinox was a particular blessing from God. The cry of this babe was so hearty that her father, waiting with his men in a neighboring courtyard, was certain he had been given a son blessed by a benevolent birth. Duke Bonifacio was only temporarily disappointed that the sanctified child was female. As Matilda grew and began to take on the characteristics of her noble parents—the exquisite features and grace of her slender mother, combined with the determination and strength of her father—she rapidly became the precious and adored daughter of the most terrifying man in Italy.

  “Why do you love that story so, Tilda? I should think it would bore you by now as you know it by heart. And I have so many others to tell you.”

  “Well, it does not bore me. So start from the beginning.” It was an order.

  Isobel smiled benignly but did not begin the story, causing Matilda to look momentarily rebellious before caving in.

  “Please, Isobel. Please will you tell me my favorite story? I shall play the part of Princess Ariadne and spin my magical threads while you tell it. And I did say please.”

  “Indeed you did, but I should not have to beg you for manners, Matilda. Your good mother is descended from the noblest household in the world, a direct descendant of the blessed Charlemagne himself, and yet she does not behave so, even to the servants who clean her chamber pot. Have you ever seen her snap orders thus? No, you have not and you will not. And outside of your good father, who has his own reasons, you won’t see any true native of Lucca behaving thus, either. It is not our way, child. It is not the Way.”

  Matilda was momentarily chastised. Her imperious impulses were born of her natural high spirits combined with her father’s influence. For while the Lady Beatrice was indeed a most gentle and highborn woman, Bonifacio was pure Tuscan soldier. Her father’s lineage combined descent from the sanctified and holy city of Lucca with the fierce Lombard warrior blood that had integrated the house of Tuscany. Where Beatrice was the graceful and cultured product of the German royal family, Bonifacio was the often ruthless and always power-mad feudal lord; he was far more a son of his warlike Lombardi blood than of his spiritual Lucchesi birth. The Lombards had invaded Italy in the sixth century, wreaking havoc on what was left of a crumbling Roman Empire. Their influence gave to the region of northern Italy the name that would one day take permanent hold: Lombardy.

  While Bonifacio had inherited significant wealth and power, he worked tirelessly to increase his own fortunes by his own merits. The rivers surrounding Mantua, the Po and the Mincio, were trade arteries to northwestern Europe that began to thrive during Bonifacio’s rule. Prior to his superior leadership, merchants had feared the lawlessness of northern Italy and avoided trade there. Critical pathways from the great ports, like Venice, for importing luxury goods from the Orient and elsewhere had been completely cut off.

  But the duke of Tuscany governed the Po river valley with an iron hand, stringing up brigands after seeing to it that they were brutally mutilated as a sign to approaching pirates that such behavior would no longer be tolerated. Strong bands of fearless and well-compensated men were organized into an elite force to patrol the river regions in the name of the grand duke.

  Bonifacio’s strategy secured the trade routes and succeeded in bringing merchants from the Adriatic via the rivers, as well as the Germans, who now were more willing to cross the Alps with their valuable wares from the northern kingdom of Saxony. In return, he exacted taxes and fees for use of the routes by merchants, who were only too glad to pay for the right to trade safely in this lucrative region. His wealth and his power grew to legendary proportions, aided by the beautiful, blue-blooded wife at his side. She was the jewel in his feudal crown, the legitimacy he required and craved.

  Bonifacio’s only weakness was his precious daughter, whom he often carried on his horse with him while inspecting his territories. At six years of age, Matilda had more experience on a horse than most adult males in her day. Yet after Matilda spent time in her father’s commanding company, Isobel needed many hours of patience to correct the child’s behavior.

  “I am sorry, Isobel.” Matilda managed to look somewhat sheepish, if only briefly. “I shall work to be a good and noble countess.”

  “That’s much better. Now, remind me. Where does this tale begin?”

  “Crete!” Matilda shrieked excitedly.

  “Ah yes. The mighty and golden kingdom of Crete. A long, long time ago there lived a great king named Minos…”

  The Minotaur was a great monster, born into the family of the king of Crete, the powerful ruler known as Minos, and his wife, Queen Pasiphaë. He was half man, half bull, and had the appetite of ten wild beasts. It is said that the Minotaur was the result of Pasiphaë’s illicit encounter with a god, or worse, with a great white bull. This has likely been misunderstood by judgmental men who could not grasp the great mysteries of the ancients. It is likely that Queen Pasiphaë was a priestess of the moon and the embodiment of the sacred feminine and that her mating with a priest, in his guise as a bull to represent the sacred masculine, was the enactment of a ritual that has been considered a holy mystery since the dawn of mankind: a ritual of the union of masculine and feminine energies, necessary for the balance of life on the earth.

  Thus the history of how the Minotaur was conceived is shrouded in mystery, but we know this: he existed as a combination of the human and the divine, and he was half miraculous and half terrible as a result. Perhaps it is the mysterious existence of the Minotaur wherein lies the secret of the Fall. Perhaps he is a symbol of the great loss of understanding that occurs when humans are no longer able to accept our divine natures and, most of all, the loss to our humanity when we abandon the necessity of honoring the masculine and feminine together in its most divine form.

  The given name of the Minotaur was Asterius, which means “star-being,” as a result of his divine origins. He was revered as one of the gods at the same time that he was the object of terror and fear amongst the humans. His body was covered with a pattern of stars as a reminder that all creatures come from heaven, even those who appear to have only a base nature. It is from heaven that we come, and to heaven we will return. For that which is above is also below.

  Was Asterius born a monster, a terrible creature who would demand human sacrifice and terrorize the peace of Crete? Or was he made a monster because he was denied love and subjected to ridicule, cruelty, and judgment? He was most certainly a source of shame for King Minos, who could not bear that his wife had conceived without him, even if it was with a divine being. Minos was driven to the brink of madness by jealousy and wanted nothing more than to destroy Asterius, but he dared not put the monster to death because of his divine paternity. Instead, the king devised an underground prison in which to house this unwanted creature and shield him from his sight.

  There lived in Minos a refugee from Athens named Daedalus the Inventor, who was summoned by Minos to create a prison in which to house the Minotaur. It was in devising this terrible structure that Daedalus became a master builder. What he conceived was the labyrinth, an enormous and circuitous type of maze that led to a midpoint; here in the midpoint was the temple in which the creature would dwell. The construction of this labyrinth was such that once one was inside, it was impossible to find the way out. This served to contain the Minotaur but also to entrap his unfortunate victims—for the construction of the labyrinth was such that once they were inside, they would not be able to escape. As his monstrous due, the Minotaur demanded a sacrifice of seven girls and seven boys to be sent into the center of the labyrinth every nine years, all of whom he devoured without a trace.

  Thus Asterius the Minotaur lived the life of a god-monster, out of the sight of the people of Crete and trapped in his subterranean labyrinth, yet as a shadow cast over the land every nine years. King Minos and Queen
Pasiphaë went on to have human children, among them the lovely and kind princess called Ariadne. The Minoan princess was renowned for her radiant beauty and was referred to throughout the lands as “the Clear and Bright One” and was also known to be “utterly pure of spirit and heart.”

  It came to pass that Crete was at war with Athens. The brother of Ariadne and the only true son of Minos, a hero called Androgeos, was slain by the Athenians in a battle. King Minos howled in his grief at the loss of his son and declared absolute terror on Athens in revenge. As part of his conquest, Minos demanded that the Athenians supply the tribute to the Minotaur from their own children, and henceforth the fourteen sacrificial innocents were taken from Athens.

  The youngest son of the Athenian king was a beautiful and heroic youth called Theseus. And so it was when it came time for the Athenians to send their terrible sacrifice to the Minotaur, Theseus volunteered to go in as the first of the fourteen, determined as he was to face the Minotaur and slay him, thus saving the lives of future innocents and liberating the people of Athens from this terror. For even in his youth, this hero was wise beyond all years. He understood that the offering of sacrifices to the Minotaur was a choice. It was a tradition that did not need to be kept, but it would take someone with great courage to stop it.

  The princess Ariadne was walking on the beach near the harbor in Crete when the ship from Athens landed to unload the sacrificial victims. It is said that she caught sight of Theseus and fell immediately in love with him, recognizing him as the bright hero who could defeat the darkness that lurked below the surface of Crete in the guise of her half brother, the terrible Minotaur Asterius. She had been haunted throughout her life by the slaying of innocents to satisfy his inhuman hunger, and yet the compassion in her heart also gave her great sympathy for his monstrous suffering.

  Ariadne arranged a secret tryst with Theseus on the eve prior to the sacrificial ceremony. Here Ariadne vowed her aid in return for his own promise to marry her and take her away with him.