The Barbed Crown

Chapter 15





Catherine and Harry had warmed to each other, since she had maternal instincts and enjoyed the chance to lecture anybody, even a four-year-old, while he regarded her care as a novel break from his parents. Still, the comtesse was suspicious when we left our son in her care after supper, since that wasn’t our habit. We told her to put him to bed at the usual hour and that we’d be back before dawn after urgent business.

“What urgent business?”

“For your safety and that of our son, it’s better that you don’t know. Tell him about the coronation, tuck him in, and enjoy this new romance Astiza bought.”

“Don’t do anything to jeopardize the way I’m infiltrating the Bonapartes!” she begged. “They’re beginning to trust me.”

“We’re doing this for Bonaparte,” I said, which was slightly the truth.

Not wanting the police to know where we were going, we slipped out through our rear yard into an adjacent alley, crept along in the dark, and came out on rue de Bac two blocks from our residence. Rather than risk the chance that a cabriolet driver would talk, we decided to walk the gloomy streets, my opening my coat to display my tomahawk to discourage thieves or pickpockets.

“People will think you’re a savage,” my wife said.

“You don’t hear of the Iroquois being robbed, do you?”

Palatine had directed us to a catacomb entrance just outside the city’s southern walls, in the sprawl of housing that had leapfrogged those fortifications once the economy recovered under Bonaparte. Half a dozen black wagons used for delivery of excavated bones were parked near a worker’s enclosure at the mouth of the Port Mahon Quarry, guarded by two sentries we marked by the glow of their pipes. Our secret way was several hundred yards farther, through a utility hatch and down stone stairs to sewers awash with two feet of filthy water. I used a tinderbox to light the lanterns I’d carried in a bundle on my shoulder. Their glow chased rats into the shadows.

“So romantic to have an evening together without our boy,” Astiza remarked.

“I’ll speak to Napoleon about the accommodations.”

“Palatine advised us to wade quickly to avoid vermin. There’s a tunnel to the quarries not far downstream.”

Cities are built of stone, and Paris has ninety miles of limestone quarries mined for monuments above. I feared we’d be lost in a maze, but my wife had a map provided by our wizard. So we entered the mines, wove this way and that, and eventually saw another glow like a welcoming window in a snowstorm. We came to a chamber of bone.

The ceiling was barely six feet, meaning my hair scraped. Candles flickered on a stone altar. To either side, femur and humerus had been stacked like cord wood with courses of skulls between. This made a retaining wall that held a jumble of ribs behind. The result was a pattern of balls, sockets, craniums, and mandibles.

Waiting for us was a living gnome: a bent, short, wrinkled specimen of a scholar in a dark robe and sewer-spattered boots who’d beckoned us to this spooky chamber. He had a wild mat of gray hair, ragged beard, and scholar’s stoop. Wise men often seem stumpy and homely, in my experience, and perhaps they became scholars because no one would pick them for team sports.

“So you brought the great Ethan Gage,” the fellow greeted with a voice coarsened to a rasp.

“You recognize my husband?”

“I recognized you in the apothecary, madame, or rather was told who you were by compatriots after your visit. You have a certain exoticism, as fascinating as a Negress, so you’re not anonymous, even in a city as big as Paris. Your husband has his own reputation, though whether wastrel or warrior seems in dispute.”

“I’m an electrician,” I said. “Military consultant, explorer, diplomat, and confidant of the emperor himself.”

“Gambler, spy, treasure hunter, fugitive, and Barbary slave,” Palatine completed. This fellow knew his history.

“And you’re named for a hill in Rome?”

“For an alchemist in the employ of Rudolf II. ‘Palatine’ is a title from Roman through medieval times, for experts in law and history. I’m a member of the Invisible College, that brotherhood that seeks truth in a world of lies and illusion. You can see I’m old; it’s been a lengthy pursuit.”

“I’ve known seekers who tend to shoot or torture folk who don’t agree with them on what the truth is. Like Cagliostro’s Egyptian Rite.”

He gestured toward my waist. “I believe in tolerance. And it’s you who are armed, not me.”

“My tomahawk? For firewood and home repair.” I glanced around our morbid meeting room. I’ve camped in ruins, hidden in a sarcophagus, and shoved aside skeletons, but this dump of the dead was the most macabre meeting place yet. Every skull here had thought itself the center of existence in its day, and now it was all black sockets and toothy grins. Would a man like Napoleon be chastened by bones that mocked ambition, or driven more than ever to escape their anonymity? “You’ve an odd way of communicating, Monsieur Palatine, if you rely on flowers found in books and rooms stuffed with the dead.”

“Not odd if it works. And what if you had a means of foretelling just what messages would work and which would not?”

“You mean the automaton of Albertus Magnus,” Astiza said. “Surely you don’t already have it.”

“Alas, no. Legend among legends. But those legends suggest that seekers shall find the rose. What would you say, madame, if I told you what I was really interested in was not the flower, but the stem?”

“I don’t understand.”

“It has thorns, does it not?”

“Yes.”

“So we’re going to make a bargain, you and me. I can start you on your quest for the secrets of Albertus and the rosy cross, but only if our purposes are aligned.”

“Meaning?” I asked.

“To thwart Bonaparte, not aid him. Isn’t that what you really seek?”

We had to be careful here. “Perhaps.”

“You can have my help to seek what Napoleon has asked you to seek only if you ensure that it never falls into his hands, because he is entirely too dangerous. He’s capable, but dedicated only to his own glory. So I’m going to tell you of a relic that can spoil his coronation, if you promise to keep the alchemical magic of Albertus Magnus out of reach of his marching armies. I don’t know if the Brazen Head exists or not, but there are enough stories to make me fearful.”

“What’s wrong with telling the future?”

“Controlling it. Chaos can result. Such a machine belongs with scholars, not soldiers.”

A thousand skulls were staring at me. “Spoiling a coronation sounds risky, if not impossible.”

“So does knowing your own future.” He gave a grim smile. “We all think just one more discovery will enlighten us, while actually it deepens the abyss of incomplete understanding. Each answer poses more questions. Still, we’re humans: it’s what we do. So my order is well aware of your reputation, Ethan Gage, and we are nothing like the heretic Egyptian Rite. The Invisible College simply wants your mission for Napoleon to give you the ability to carry out the same mission for us; to probe old legends and decide if any are true.”

“And the legends are what, exactly?” Astiza asked.

“Well back in the thirteenth century—”

“The time of Albertus Magnus,” I interrupted.

“The castle of Gemelshausen stood in the middle of Germany’s Thuringia Forest. The family that inhabited it had the reputation as grim pagans who made their living as brigands. By rumor, they worshipped an eroded statue of an old goddess set in the castle courtyard. Athena, perhaps.”

“A guise of the eternal goddess. Isis and Mary as well,” Astiza said.

“A Dominican friar named Tors was on a rampage to root out unbelievers, aided by a one-eyed henchman named Rollo who claimed to be able to detect heretics at a glance. The two decided Gemelshausen was a fortress of evil, and they convinced Count Conrad of Thuringia to raze it. A siege commenced, culminating in a bloody massacre in which almost the entire Gemelshausen clan was slaughtered. The only survivor was a five-year-old boy, rescued by a monk and carried out from the flaming castle through a secret cave. This monk, a guest of the castle, studied ancient mysteries like us. He took the boy for safety to the refugee survivors of the Albigensian sect in southern France.”

“The Albi-what?” I asked.

“They were also called the Cathars,” Astiza explained. “A twelfth- and thirteenth- century mix of Eastern and Western religion that sees life on earth as hell. The world is a struggle between good and evil, or light and dark, reflecting the dualism of Persian religion. Jesus was a spirit instead of Son of God, and thus his sacrifice was only symbolic. Human redemption could be achieved by one’s own spiritual growth instead of through the clergy—redemption could even be achieved by suicide! The Church declared the movement heresy and crushed it all, massacring followers after horrific sieges.”

“Why do you know so much of other faiths, madame?” Palatine asked.

“By studying the linkages between the ancient Eastern religions and the new Western ones, I hope to discover universal truths.” Which sounded considerably more ambitious than my own goal of retiring on the sale of an ill-gotten emerald, but then I was a good shot, and she was not. We all have our talents.

“This five-year-old survivor . . .” Palatine went on.

“Little older than Harry!” I interjected, feeling a little left out of the conversation.

“ . . . was raised in the aftermath of the war against the Cathars and became interested in ancient knowledge. He set out for Damascus, crammed with learned men from Persia who were fleeing the invading Mongols under Hulagu, grandson of Genghis Kahn. Our hero took an allegorical name, Rosenkreutz, which is German for ‘rosy cross,’ the flower being a symbol of knowledge and the cross for spirit and sacrifice. Then on to Arabia, Egypt, Turkey, and Spain, each time seeking out scholars and spiritual masters. In Spain he learned from the Alumbrados, another secret society ultimately wiped out by the Inquisition.”

“What has all this to do with the Brazen Head?” I asked impatiently.

“Rosenkreutz had experienced firsthand, since childhood, the mob’s persecution of people who think for themselves. He formed a secret brotherhood of eight members to pass on secret knowledge. They were sworn to use it only for curing the sick and helping the poor. Like many holy men, they did their best to avoid the sins of vanity, lust, greed, pride, and gluttony, committing to chastity.”

I can never understand such a commitment.

“From Spain, Rosenkreutz traveled slowly through France on his way back to Germany, and it is in Paris that he met the German scholar Albertus. It is legend that Albertus worked on some kind of automaton around 1260, and legend that a horrified Thomas Aquinas destroyed this mechanical seer, and competing legend that the head was not destroyed, but rather completed with the contribution of Rosenkreutz about that time. It was taken to central Europe and hidden away until mankind has the maturity to master its awesome powers of prediction.”

“Where in central Europe?” Astiza asked.

“That, madame, is what you and your husband must learn. I’m going to suggest you begin in Prague, a magical and mystical city where the greatest alchemists of the age gathered for experimentation and philosophy. I think Napoleon chose you not just for your research abilities, but your abilities to cross borders and meet with all sides. Your husband’s reputation has its advantages. Since no one is certain what he believes, all think he can be employed in their cause.”

“I believe in love and family,” I said. This fellow seemed entirely too convenient to me, with his rose sign and crypt of a meeting place. “And why are you sharing all this information, eh?”

“Pamphlets revealing the life of Rosenkreutz and promising secrets of lost knowledge began appearing early in the seventeenth century. Since then modern Rosicrucian groups have sprung up. I belong to one. We’re as interested in the truth of the Brazen Head as anyone. We’re also disturbed by the idea that a newly created emperor might misuse its powers for his own ends. We’d prefer that people of wisdom find it first and decide whether its powers should be harnessed or hidden.”

“People like us.”

“People like your wife. If she found that book in the library, it’s a sign she has official support and freedom of movement. She fits our needs.”

“If the head is in German or Austrian territory, Napoleon can’t get it anyway,” I said.

“Unless his armies march that way.”

“They’re on the coast planning an invasion of England.”

“An invasion? Or a feint before a strike to the east?”

There it was again. Were the Boulogne camps nothing but a sham? As usual, I had no idea.

“Napoleon may loot all of Europe if he’s not stopped at his coronation,” Palatine went on.

“You’re asking for assassination?”

“That would make him a martyr and elevate his inept brothers. No, we prefer humiliation. Which brings us to the real reason I’m meeting with you. Does the Brazen Head exist? I don’t know. Where is it? I’ve suggested where you should begin, but not your final destination. Napoleon’s ultimate strategy? We’re guessing. But this man is seeking power greater than Charlemagne, harnessed to supernatural secrets. Men of learning are concerned. So you came to me with the rose, and I’m here to remind you that the rose has thorns.”

Mystics love to make things as obscure as possible, I’ve learned, and never use a sentence when a paragraph of riddles will do. Priests, savants, politicians, and barristers are much the same. The ambitious believe that if you want people to think you’re smart, pose as pretentiously as possible and charge a premium for confusion and wasted time. “Can we get to the point?”

“When the Church was banned and Notre Dame designated a Temple of Reason at the height of the revolution, a number of sacred religious objects were removed to the Bibliothèque Nationale. With Napoleon having reached a concordant with the Church, some have now been repatriated to the Archbishop’s Palace next to Notre Dame, inhabited by Cardinal Belloy. One of those is the most famous relic in Christendom.” The druggist paused, for dramatic effect.

“Which is?” I finally prompted.

“The Crown of Thorns, allegedly worn by Jesus Christ at his crucifixion. It came to Paris in 1239 when Saint Louis paid the Venetians for twenty-nine relics that the Emperor Baldwin of Constantinople had pawned to raise money to fight the Turks. Can you imagine pawning eternal salvation for a war nobody remembers? Among the objects were a nail from the crucifixion, a fragment of the True Cross, and the crown, all traced back to the Holy Land in the centuries after Christ. They’d been moved west to Byzantium to keep them safe after the Muslim conquest of Jerusalem. Our glorious Parisian cathedral of Saint-Chapelle was built as a reliquary for these objects, and later the Crown of Thorns was displayed for years in the church treasury at Notre Dame. Its seventy thorns were gradually removed and shared among the royals of Europe, a prick of Christ’s agony for each. But the vines the thorns were attached to remain and are instantly recognizable by the faithful.”

“What’s left is a wreath of old brambles?”

“A crude and irreverent description, but yes. My proposal is that when the coronation occurs, Napoleon be crowned with that relic.” He said it as casually as if suggesting we meet for a drink.

Astiza gasped. “But that’s blasphemy! To put the crown of Jesus on your own head? Even atheists would riot. Bonaparte would be condemned as a sacrilegious usurper by every Christian in Europe.”

“Exactly.” He smiled. “His rule would be wrecked before it properly began, his assertion of regal power would be destroyed, the pope would be furious, and excommunication might follow. The coronation would not be confirmation of Napoleon’s power, it would be a mockery. It would make him impotent, and it would likely end any chance he could ever seize the Brazen Head.”

“So why would he select this Crown of Thorns?” I asked.

“You will pick it for him.”

“Let me review. You want us to somehow put this instrument of Jesus’s torture on the head of Napoleon Bonaparte?”

“I want Pope Pius to do it, and upend the Corsican’s entire regime.” He nodded, already seeing the tumult in his head.

“But the pope would never do that. Would he?”

“He would if the Crown of Thorns was substituted for Napoleon’s coronation crown without anyone’s knowledge. Even if the pope dropped the Crown of Thorns in shock before actually lifting it to the dictator’s head, the effect would be the same. Napoleon would be accused of insane hubris.”

I tried to imagine the scene. “Perhaps. It could certainly confound the coronation, but why would Cardinal Belloy do such a thing?”

“He wouldn’t. Catholics are grateful to Napoleon for inviting the Church back. Someone else must steal the crown from the cardinal, substitute it for the intended one, and take everyone by surprise.”

I had a sinking feeling. “Someone?” The plan sounded blasphemous even to me.

“A man with access to Napoleon and his coronation preparations, allied with a comtesse advising Josephine on fashion, and with an Egyptian bride who can research the object and speculate where it might be hidden. A man, Monsieur Gage, with a reputation as one of the greatest thieves of France and America. You.”