ARKANE Thrillers Books 7-9

Chapter 3

3

JAKE AND NAOMI WALKED into the Cloisters main entrance. An usher directed them towards a small group of specially invited scholars milling about as they waited for the tour prior to the unveiling of the cross.

There was a muted excitement in the air, a level appropriate for academics whose passion remained of the more intellectual kind. The group congregated in one of the main Cloisters, a rectangular court constructed from fragments of the Benedictine monastery of San Miguel de Cuixà near the Pyrenees. Columns of Languedoc marble in shades of coral surrounded a garden with a fountain in the center, the sound of the water a peaceful refrain. Jake had a peculiar sense of being transplanted in time and space, the European architecture making it seem as if he had flown across the ocean for hours, only to arrive in nearby France.

A man stepped up into one of the Gothic arches so he was framed by the dark stone. He brushed his thinning grey hair to one side, pushed his glasses up his nose and coughed slightly to get the attention of the group. He waited for a hush before starting, his voice reedy and slightly high pitched with nerves.

"Welcome, esteemed colleagues from around the world. I'm the curator of artifacts and today we're so excited to share the Cloisters Cross with you, revealed for the first time in its entirety. Well, almost." The curator smiled. "We have hunted down the base of the artifact but the figure of Christ, the corpus, continues to evade us. Still, it is truly a marvel to see this impeccable and unique medieval artifact. It is one of only three almost complete medieval crosses in the world."

He paused for dramatic effect. "Follow me."

The curator turned and walked through the archway, followed by the group of academics – mostly men and a few older women. Naomi certainly stood out in the crowd and Jake noticed a few appreciative glances in her direction.

It was cool as they walked through the stone corridors, surrounded by the glories of medieval Europe. One door was flanked by a pair of sculpted figures that guarded the entryway, while around them on the walls was a bestiary of animals.

Jake found his pace slowing as he looked from side to side, noticing a dragon curling its tail around a tree portrayed in sepia fresco.

"It's an amazing place," he whispered to Naomi. "It feels so familiar and yet, the way it's arranged jars somehow, like something is just out of place."

Naomi shook her head with a smile. "I know, and I can't believe I haven't visited before. Living in New York for so long and yet I still don't know all its treasures."

They emerged into another courtyard open to the sky above. The curator paused. The scent of lavender and rosemary filled the air, overlaying a more complex aroma.

"We have a medieval garden here at the Cloisters," he said. "We grow the herbs, fruits and flowers that the monks would have had in those far-off times. Tending of the gardens was considered a holy duty, as much as prayer, and we like to think we continue to praise the Creator with our efforts. In celebration, we would like to offer you all some tea made from our garden of medieval herbs before we proceed into the main event."

The curator waved a hand and a group of servers carried trays forward, handing out steaming cups of hot liquid, the smell an enticing mixture of flower petals and a medicinal tinge of peppermint.

Jake handed a cup to Naomi and took one for himself, blowing on it a little before taking a sip. There was an aniseed note, a floral edge, and the overall taste was refreshing – perfect for jet lag. Around them, the academics drank enthusiastically, discussing the vintage as if it were a rare wine.

They followed the curator onwards into a large room, with stone block-work like the walls of a castle turret. It had a low ceiling held up by arched spines and columns topped by carvings of plants. Windows on one side let in a blueish light from outside. In the center of the room, a cross stood mounted on a stone plinth, starkly illuminated from above to highlight the elaborate carvings. It was delicate, slightly bowed in shape, and a warm golden color.

A hush fell over the group as they gathered around the sacred object.

The curator held his hands together, fingertips touching as if he was about to pray. His voice was sonorous, the acoustics resonating his words as he spoke with gravitas.

"It has been said that the symbolism on the Cloisters Cross is akin to that of the Sistine Chapel compressed into an object you can hold in your hands. It's made of morse ivory, the traditional term for walrus tusk, carbon dated to the end of the seventh century. It was perhaps 500 years old when it was carved, so it was already an object of antiquity."

The curator walked around the cross, reveling in his chance to impress a captive audience with his knowledge.

"You need to examine it from all angles to appreciate the master craftsmanship as the carvings emerge from all surfaces. It was originally decorated with color, and traces of ultramarine blue, malachite and vermilion have been found on the surface, all pigments used by Romanesque artists." The curator tilted his head to one side, gazing at the cross. "Personally, I prefer the unadorned simplicity. Come, you may gather closer to examine it."

The center of the cross was a round engraved medallion. Each of the top three arms ended in a square terminal, where other tiny carvings could be seen. The long shaft of the cross held the pattern of a pruned tree trunk.

Jake bent to look more closely at two tiny figures, Adam and Eve, clinging to the bottom of the Tree of Life, their faces upturned to Heaven in desperation. Moses was portrayed with the Brazen Serpent lifted high on a forked stick, and each individual figure on the cross had a different face, turned to show an aspect of their biblical character. It was truly a masterpiece.

As they stepped closer to examine it, Naomi stumbled a little, and Jake reached out to help her. She frowned and looked at the ground, confusion in her eyes.

"Are you okay?" Jake whispered, taking her arm.

"I'm … um … yes, the floor seems a little uneven, that's all."

Her eyes were unfocused for a moment, but then she shook her head and bent to the cross.

"The earth trembles, Death defeated groans with the buried one rising," Naomi said quietly. "That's one of the Latin couplets on the shaft." She pointed at the top. "But it's the titulus I came to see especially. Look, where the hand of God is portrayed within a stylized cloud. The Gospels use the phrase, Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews, but this has Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Confessors. It's a very unusual phrase." She bent even closer. "And there, you can just see the line of corrupted Hebrew." She squinted at it. "That's strange, it looks like –"

The curator clapped his hands together, a little gesture of scholarly excitement as he prepared to share more of the story of the artifact.

"It's important to understand the great journey that the cross has traveled to reach us here. It came to the Met from a Yugoslavian art collector, Ante Topic Mimara, who recovered works of art at the end of the Second World War. He withheld the provenance of the cross, dying with its secrets intact, but there are reports from a Hungarian immigrant that the crucifixus maledictus had been seen in the Cistercian monastery of Zirc in the Bakony Mountains in Hungary. It was known as the crucifixus maledictus because of one of the carvings, Maledictus omnis qui pendet in ligno. Cursed is everyone who hangs on a tree. This refers to the traditional method of crucifixion, and of course Jesus reversed this curse with his sacrifice for us."

Jake bent forward as the curator's voice faded in volume, as if the sound came from beneath a swimming pool. It wasn't unusual to have blocked ears after a flight and he shook his head a little as he tried to catch the words.

"It's thought that the cross was sent to Hungary as part of a ransom for Richard the Lionheart in 1194, when he was captured on his way home from the Crusades. The Abbot of Bury St Edmunds was instrumental in the exchange, with many of the riches of the monastery given in ransom. It's thought that the cross was amongst that treasure."

Light-headed now, Jake swayed slightly. Naomi reached out a hand to steady him, and Jake noticed a few of the academics had moved back to lean against the thick walls.

"The carvings on the cross portray the story of the Passion of Christ," the curator continued, "expressed through the testimony of the evangelists while the Tree of Life winds up the front of the cross. It's stunning even without the missing corpus. The back of the cross … features the individual prophets holding texts from their holy books. They …"

The curator rubbed at his temples as his words trailed off, a confused look crossing his face as he lost track of what he was saying. He clutched the edge of the plinth, turning towards the arched doorway before sinking down to sit on the floor.

Jake felt a lifting sensation, a weightlessness, almost as if he could fly. He wanted to climb up to the top of the Cloisters and jump into the air, sure of his ability to soar like the birds. At the same time, he lost control of his limbs and he sank to his knees, realizing that around him, others were doing the same.

"The tea," Naomi whispered, her voice faint as she dropped to the floor next to him. "They grow Datura metel here, downy thorn apple, a powerful hallucinogenic plant used in medieval magic as well as medicine." She looked around at the other academics lying prone on the stone floor, their movements sluggish. "We've been poisoned."

Jake's tongue was thick in his mouth and he couldn't shape a reply as footsteps echoed on the stone floor, two sets deliberately walking towards the room. Jake saw them emerge from the archway in a haze of vision, their features morphing in and out of focus, first lizard like and then shining like angels. He couldn't move his limbs even as his mind seemed to soar above them into the vault of the ceiling. He tried to focus on them, tried to capture aspects of their faces, but he couldn't see properly. They both wore dark cassocks like priests, a uniform that attracted deference and little suspicion in a place like the Cloisters, but they walked like military men.

One of the men carried a suitcase. He laid it on the floor in front of the cross, opening it to reveal a padded interior.

He lifted the Cloisters Cross from its stand, reverence in his eyes and in the way he handled it. He pulled it gently, the pieces sliding apart, and he laid each ivory element gently in the case before closing the lid carefully. Ignoring the prone academics on the floor, the pair walked out again, their actions taking only a few minutes. The stone plinth stood empty, the spotlight only serving to emphasize the negative space where one of the great treasures of Christendom had stood so briefly.