“Who is Salai?” Kristen asked suddenly, her tongue working at last.
“You’ll have to forgive the name,” the elf said. “An affectation when I adopted him. He’s oraku, but a very versatile young fellow and far less antisocial than most of them. He does, however, have some of the more negative traits of his historical antecedent.”
“He gambles, spends too much, and is rude to his master,” Serrin said, almost smiling. He’d studied the biographies carefully.
“Yes, all of that,” the elf said. “You have done some homework. I expected that of you from the reports. I could not be certain that Mr. Sutherland would recruit you, but when he did. I was pleased. Merlin thinks well of you, I know.”
“You know Hessler.”
“Oh, very well. We have known each other for, shall we say, some years. I must add, though, that he did not tell me anything of what passed between you. He simply allowed me to know that you were someone who could be worked with. That was important knowledge. I very much hope he is right. We shall all have to.”
“Look,” Serrin said, “we’re almost totally in the dark. We have to know what’s going on. You say too much we can’t understand.”
“You had to start from the icon in the Matrix,” the elf told him.
“Yes. It identified Leonardo. It’s also heretical, and in some sense fraudulent. The Shroud is a fake.”
“Of course it is,” the elf said. “Pope Innocent wanted it done. Innocent! Hah! It had a history, entirely superstitious and unconfirmed, but he thought it would make an excellent inspiration for the gullible. He really was an unprincipled old bastard, even by the standards of the times, and that’s saying something. Since it seems some, many, still believe in that ridiculous cloth, it’s plain that he knew what he was doing.”
They all realized the elf was talking as if he’d dealt with a Catholic pope dead for more than half a millennium, but Serrin didn’t seem fazed at all. He continued with his line of thought, each question marking another faltering but significant step in his reasoning.
“The Shroud’s face is Leonardo’s. So is that of the Mona Lisa, and you put her on the Shroud icon, except that you made her black.”
“Forgive me,” the elf said. “I never could resist a little self-advertisement.”
“You’ve come among a heretical cult that believes John the Baptist is the true son of God. Why?”
“They’re wrong, of course,” the elf said evenly, apparently unaware that he wasn’t answering Serrin’s question. “But they’re one step closer to the truth.”
“Why is the Magdalene the real focus of the Last Supper?” Serrin suddenly shot at the elf. Gray eyes met him firm and full, and the elf looked as if some weight had fallen from his shoulders. Serrin was suddenly shot through with a chill, a realization and understanding that hit him full in the heart and guts.
He is Leonardo.
And that is not all he is.
“So, now we come to the truth,” Leonardo said, rising to his feet. He had a sweep of grandeur about him that impressed itself even on the samurai, who stood stock-still looking at him with near-awe on their faces.
“You must understand, the Mandaeans were not taken in by the Pauline propaganda. They knew all the reasons why the older stories were true; the significance of Paul arriving in Corinth and Ephesus claiming himself to be the first Christian missionary and finding churches already there, as the Acts of the Apostles so foolishly gives away, and the churches were those of John. They also grasped the deep significance of baptism, and the Muslim people hereabouts regard their long adherence to that practice as very, very strange. The central significance, of course, is that the baptizer always initiates the baptized. He is senior to him, more initiated, more acquainted with the mysteries. He is no follower. He is the bearer of the knowledge, not the acolyte in search of it. How that managed to turn into a tale of John being little more than a spiritual warm-up act is one of history’s more endearing little tales.
“John, indeed, was a messenger and a prophet, but not for who most people think. The politics of what ended up as what are laughably called the canonical gospels is, again, an intriguing historical study. For he served someone quite different. As I do too, in my way. And that way grows very important now.”
“This is madness,” Michael said. “You speak as if-”
“I know, as if I’d been there,” the elf finished impatiently. “You won’t believe me so I won’t bother with that. Not now. Theres an easier way to let you know.”
“The Magdalene,” Serrin said insistently. “The Magdalene figure. The face on the Shroud. The face at the supper.”
“Yes,” the elf whispered. “Now, Serrin, I could tell you to go to the cathedral at Notre Dame, or in a hundred other cities throughout Europe and Asia Minor-though Notre Dame is the best example because Paris is the city of love-and gaze on the Black Madonna looking out over her people. It is an image they have never been able to replace with their wretched medieval Virgin, no matter how many times they mistranslated that one, simple little word. Because a virgin is barren and joyless, a symbol only of fear and body-hating revulsion, and the true Madonna is close to the lives and hearts and souls of all people and her spirit infuses them instead of denying the rightful wholeness of their souls. The Magdalene was her priestess, and John her initiate. That’s the heresy. That’s what’s worth a nuclear warhead bearing the Papal seal. And it’s the secret I seeded into all those designs, and I laughed at the popes and their venal servitors who paid me to create those idols of false worship. The secret has always been there for anyone with eyes to see, right in front of the noses of those who would deny her.”
The air in the chamber started to acquire the tang of metal and ozone. A figure began to manifest behind him. Tall as the elf seemed to be, risen with exaltation, the woman behind him seemed to be of unearthly height and fullness, richly dressed in satin and pearls and the gems of an ancient potentate’s treasury of pillage of far-flung, exotic lands.
Serrin knew from experience that it was the materialized form of a Great Spirit, but it seemed to him to carry an emotional charge far greater even than that he’d known on the very, very few occasions he’d met such a being.
“She is Isis.” the ancient elf whispered, the only one able to speak at all. This is my mistress and my passion. This is the truth. What you have been told until this day is lies, It is now time that this truth be known by all the people of this world, and many people are very, very afraid of that.”
The woman was impassive, the ebony of her skin perfectly smooth, her eyes closed, her hands folded into her lap. She stood utterly still, and when they looked upon her they felt an indescribable yearning, a longing for her presence to stay with them and for much more. The incarnation faded, impassive to the end, giving no recognition of either their presence or their existence.
“There is an occult belief that has persisted, though it has never been widely held,” the elf said finally, once they were alone again in the chamber, “that Biblical events are merely a retelling of the story of Isis and Osiris. In such beliefs, Osiris is identified with Christ. There is a darker understanding and knowledge of this.
“If you want the simple translation, for Osiris read John; for Isis read the Magdalene; for Salome read Nephthys; the rest you can fill in for yourselves. if you don’t know, you’ll learn, soon enough.”
“If you go to the world with this,” Serrin said slowly, trying to regain some composure, you’ll be regarded as simply another nut.”
“I think not,” the elf said evenly. “For a start, it’s time I showed them all how I made the Shroud for Innocent. There will be the debris of the missile you are here to verify. Then again, I do have something of an advantage when it comes to dealing with the lies history has told us.