The Serpent Papers (19 page)

This morning at nine o’clock I was met at Barcelona port by a sallow envoy of Captain Charles Leopold Ruthven, a lean man with a face like a hawk and a malevolent disposition who seemed to be of some strange northern extraction; refusing me his name, I christened him Brass Buckle – his hands (rough and broad) suggested that the fellow had come from the mountains and never eased into the civil-living of the city. Brass Buckle was dressed in luxury for a man of his station, with gold cuffs and a great beaver-trimmed coat; his collar a bright, luminescent gold, his hair short beneath a broad cap. This man accosted me tersely – striding across the melee of travellers to take my luggage with an aggressive nod before pointing to the carriage that awaited me. I had taken measures to send Ruthven my likeness from London, but it surprised me that this alien figure should intuit my features. I resisted mounting Brass Buckle’s carriage in the instance that his was an elaborate scheme to hoodwink me of my belongings – I have prepared myself for these European dishonesties by reading the books you lent me – paying particular attention to the depravities of St Irvyne cautioning wisely against corrupt Rosicrucians and Alchemists (of which I am sure there are many).

The servant explained in broken English that Ruthven had instructed him as to my bearing and the clothing I had agreed to wear as a symbol of our friendship: a silk necktie sent to me in London by post. I also wore my frock coat and a wide brown-rimmed hat. The necktie is a disagreeable colour, mauve (I prefer the fashionable black), but having been warned of Ruthven’s eccentricities I did as I was told, and the meeting was, in the end, smooth. I agreed to be taken by the servant and his driver to the house of this elusive scholar, bumped and buffeted by a gold-encrusted carriage that wound its way through a marvellous array of crowded streets with Gothic overtones. In short time I arrived at a square marked by the emergence of a large pine spreading its prodigious bows over a covered market and the black face of an imposing church. Across from the church I noted an impressive façade in which (I assumed as the carriage approached) was the address of our Ruthven. I was correct. The carriage dropped me at his door, the servant taking my cases from the driver before bustling me into the house. The gilded door opened for a second, I slipped through. The portcullis was slammed and bolted by the servant behind me. The abruptness of this arrival startled me, as did my lavish environs. The servant uttered a series of fragmented words (Brass Buckle later proved to be alone in his duties), leading me through a series of rooms to the second floor of the building. It should be noted that Ruthven is by all accounts very rich, having made his fortune by the discovery of a hidden mass of gold many years ago while a naval man in Peru, gold he invested wisely in East Indian ventures. I can attest to the truth of these London rumours by the display of opulence in his home. The floors of the home are marble, arranged in a criss-crossing geometric pattern of interlocking black and white slabs. The walls, when not inlaid with stained teak, are covered in the most delicate silk, ornamented with birds and fruit. The furniture is primarily Indian woodwork, the entry hall decorated with swords, pistols and scimitars arranged in the shape of a star. Greek columns and statues intermingle with vast urns from the Chinese Empire. Books are thrown everywhere, piles of paper sit in the corners, the windows are firmly shuttered and very little light enters the bowels of this establishment. The whole sensation is one of confusion and isolation within the luscious comfort of an opium den. After abandoning the service of the Queen (and the uncovering of gold) Ruthven devoted his career to more adventurous pursuits, and the fruits of these travels decorate his home. He is a career explorer, an adventuring type – you know his name from the excavation of the tombs at Abu Simbel – previous to his deployment in Peru! And his subsequent work with Monsieur Jean-François Champollion, translator of the Rosetta Stone. Not satisfied with mastering the language of the ancients and seeking out their bounty, Ruthven has now immersed himself in the study of my own passion, the Catalan mystic Rex Illuminatus and his Muslim counterparts in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, in the hopes that they will expand his understanding of Alchemy, the minting of divine gold being his current inclination! The resulting treasures of this journey of many wonders: pages of illumined manuscripts in gilt frames, curiosities from the Empire – Indian goddesses and Sanskrit passages, portraits of Ruthven with forgotten Mughals and elephants, Chinese dogs on every fireplace, the floors decorated with Persian carpets and incense burning on the walls. The black-coated servant led me to a sitting room whereupon Ruthven emerged from his chair.

‘Sitwell,’ he said. ‘I trust you have journeyed safely?’

Ruthven looked me up and down before extending his hand to introduce himself. He then nodded at his servant who brought brandy. The sitting room was lit by gas lamps and a single Russian candelabrum on the mantelpiece. The blinds of the windows were drawn in thick curtains, the interior lined with tapestries depicting a woodland scene, the faces of women flickering in and out of the shadows behind Ruthven. It was only as my eyes adjusted to the dark that I realized that the panels were also decorated by a series of four hand-drawn diagrams framed in gold that duplicated the illustrated charts of Rex Illuminatus and that scattered around these pictures on the floor were alchemical instruments medieval in nature. There was a triangle and an eye carved into the wood of the beam above the fireplace. It is true then that he shares this fascination, I thought, my heart lifting.

But of course! He has become the leading English scholar of Illuminatus’s work in the philosophical realm, publishing his articles of discovery while cultivating contacts in the libraries of this city and the monasteries on Majorca. Legend has it he encountered Illuminatus via his fascination with the Egyptian alchemists and later through his devoted readings of the Franciscan accounts of the Conquest of the New World (remembering of course that it was the lost Incan gold of Peru which initially drew his interest . . . creating a subsequent wealth which enables his less orthodox projects) but I digress . . . I wondered briefly what Ruthven might reveal to me about the medieval philosopher Rex Illuminatus that I did not already know? Whole worlds! I thought to myself, settling into the chair across from him, expecting to be engaged in conversation, but for a long while we were silent as Ruthven studied my features, taking in the entirety of my person with unabashed intensity.

I elected to do the same, and so we sat in an uneasy, mutual purdah. Ruthven is not so young nor so handsome as I had been told – but then he has not surfaced in London in nearly thirty years, though his writings have received increasing circulation at the Universities. He looks haggard, as darkly moribund as his servant Brass Buckle, his cheeks hollow and his eyes heavy with some lingering sadness. His hair is a shock of brown curls, thinning at the front, parted down the middle and combed to the side. His face is shaved, which reveals the rawness of his features, his frame broad but somehow weakened, his limbs too thin for his chest, his head small on his shoulders. Despite his stillness, he seemed agitated and enlivened by my arrival. He broke the impasse with a sudden stream of words:

‘What is the absolute significance of the Avian Alphabet BCDEFGHIK?’

I retaliated: ‘B = Bonifaces, C = Magnitudo, D = Eternitas, E = Potestas, F = Sapienta, G = Voluntas, H = Virtus, I = Veritas, K = Glorias.’

‘And what are these?’

‘The divine dignities of God.’

‘Well done. Now, the relative meanings?’

‘Following the same alphabet, you have B = Difference, C = Agreement, D = Contrary, E = Beginning, F = Middle, G = End, H = Majority, I = Equal and K = Minority.’

‘And do you know how to read the signs?’

‘I do.’

‘Would you call yourself an artist?’

‘I am a logician and metaphysician – in this sense I am Illuminatus’s conception of an artist.’

He quoted from Illuminatus. ‘
His is a gift from the divine spirit that allows you to know all of the good of the law, all truth of medicine, all discovery of science, and all the secrets of theology.
Do you claim to understand it?’

‘No, Captain Ruthven. That is why I have come to you.’

He smiled.

‘A test. Let us begin with a test.’

Ruthven reached out to the little drinks table by the side of his chair and rang a silver bell in the shape of a woman with a pleated skirt. The servant Brass Buckle appeared immediately.

‘Fetch me my work notes,’ Ruthven said. Brass Buckle disappeared through a door leading (I later discovered) to a study adjoined to my quarters. When Brass Buckle returned the servant pressed into my hand an illustration of a circle, containing three outer rings, divided into nine equal parts and at its centre three overlaid triangles. The triangles are stacked in such a manner that they create a star with nine points, aligned with each of the nine sections. The outermost rim of the circular diagram is divided into nine segments, each containing a letter of the divine alphabet. Around the circular diagram, the writer has created an ornate frame of filigree lines, as if the image were mounted on a twelfth-century illustrated manuscript.

‘So?’ Ruthven asked me, crossing his legs in his chair. ‘What is it?’

‘Rex Illuminatus’s ordering of the Figure T,’ I responded. ‘A truth machine that can only be interpreted by an adept, an individual capable of navigating the myriad meanings of the alphabet.’

‘You’re halfway there.’ Ruthven’s visage lightened before another cloud passed over. He whisked the papers out of my hands. ‘You have failed to identify the key figure. However, this is as expected.’

He examined me again. I resisted from launching into my pedigree, telling him of my successes across both the departments of Philosophy and Classics, that I had read all of Illuminatus’s works in the original – Spanish, Latin and Catalan – with the exception of his Oriental Works and was entrenched in learning Arabic though that project (as you know) might well last me the remainder of my lifetime. Confidence of that kind does not become a young scholar and Ruthven struck me initially as a terse, arrogant type. This, I assume, had been conveyed to him by my letters of introduction, courtesy of professors at the University.

‘Have you read my articles on the immortality of Illuminatus published in July of this year?’

I nodded.

‘And you have studied my English–Catalan dictionary at Cambridge?’

Yes, I replied.

‘Then you are well equipped for the job.’

I expressed confusion. Employment had not been discussed by my tutors.

‘I am in need of an ally. A gentleman. You are a man of honour, no doubt?’

I lifted my bearing and replied that I was, if a third son. Ruthven smiled. ‘I will explain more later. Now, how well do you know this city?’

‘Not at all,’ I replied, thinking this truth ought to be quite obvious from my previous letters. He should know as well as you do it is my first time in Barcelona.

‘Well then – it’s time you got to know her,’ he hummed to himself. ‘My servant will take care of your things. Now up, man, come along, I’ll give you a tour of the place and our pretty neighbourhood, though it must be said, it’s seen nicer days. What’s the time? Eleven o’clock – off we go with time for lunch, a few hours’ stroll, stretch your legs, get a feel of the place.’

Outside the sun was shining and the avenues bustling with humanity; he promenaded me up through a variety of streets, speaking as we went, travelling by foot to the cathedral. ‘Every corner of this city, Mr Sitwell, is layered with stories. It is up to the discerning Scholar to unravel them and glean their true significance, to draw out the secrets from the folk tales which enshroud a common history!’ Captain Ruthven’s voice rang out.

We turned a corner behind the church, entering a dreary, dilapidated passage, filled with the excess waste of the city – mud and urine among other ugly things. Ruthven stopped before a house, which seemed to have been abandoned by time; the place carried an unpleasant, melancholy flavour. Truly it was a grim abode, with a wide entrance barred by a series of boards, windows nailed shut and no occupants inside despite the scarcity of lodging in the city centre. The stonework was strangely like that of the Incan walls I have studied – the rock bulging at the sides, forming a curved incline from the ground.

‘A house left empty in the centre of a bustling city: what history do you see, Mr Sitwell?’ Ruthven asked. I confessed I could make out nothing. Ruthven’s eyes glowed with an eerie ferocity. He rapped the stone pavement beneath his feet with the tip of his cane and embarked on this harrowing tale.

‘There once was a Jewish Cabbalist Alchemist who lived in the maze of little streets behind Santa Maria del Pi and he worked there in peace for many decades. In the neighbourhood his sciences and spells gathered powerful reputation – and with his enemies seemingly dead he felt safe to venture forward in his practices. He would have continued thus for many centuries, had not one morning he exited his house to find a babe wrapped in swaddling on the doorstep to his home, and a note, written in Hebrew, imploring the Alchemist to take care of a child born out of wedlock to the daughter of a Jewish merchant. When the Doctor looked into the infant’s face, he was filled with an all-encompassing sense of sadness, and wondered – hoped – prayed indeed, that if he took this child into his house he could slow the curse which plagued the world around him, that brought the pillars of the earth crumbling down and would forever keep the children of the book from reaching love. Taking the infant into his house he raised her with kindness, teaching her the secrets of his craft, the charts and diagrams of his heart, the unspoken language of his letters. In time she grew, emerging from the skin of a girl into the heart and soul of a woman. The adopted daughter of the ancient Alchemist became the most beautiful woman in Barcelona, with rich black hair cascading down her shoulders, skin of olive and gold, and eyes sharp as obsidian. Her father loved her fiercely, and feared for her safety, watching the gaze of the men as she shopped in the market squares. The Alchemist protected her from the world as an innocent and a beauty; that she was his daughter he educated her mind, while fighting to shelter her from the predations of man – understanding the lust which followed her as a smoke.’