NationStates Jolt Archive

“I stand alone in this desolate space
In death they are truly alive
Massacred innocence, evil took place
The angels were burning inside

Centuries later I wonder why
What secret they took to their grave
Still burning heretics under our skies
Religion's still burning inside”
– Iron Maiden, “Montsegur”

***

Henry Dalton was a professor of archaeology at the Royal University of Malkyer (like the Armed Forces, the University hadn’t changed it’s name after the switch to an Imperial-style of government), here in France on a trip with some of his graduate students, and professor of theology and a few of his students. Totaled, the group numbered nineteen: two professors, sixteen students, and a translator. Along with them were six bodyguards hired from Malkyer. Though he doubted there would be any trouble, the University had insisted that Dalton take protection before they would green-light the trip.

For their trip, they were in the south of France, in the heart of the Languedoc-Midi-Pyrenees region. The Archaeology students were examining the site of Montsegur (http://www.celtoslavica.de/europa/photos/Montsegur.jpg), while Professor Wrothschild lectured his Theology students, and anyone else that would listen, about the Cathars Heresy. It was a interesting story, to be sure, but Dalton really didn’t care for religion.

***

David Wrothschild had gathered several of his students together, and was now telling them about the final days of the siege of Montsegur.

“Now, as we’ve already covered, the siege began in 1243, when the Cathars were trapped by some ten thousand French Catholic soldiers. The siege lasted some ten months, well into the next year, before the Cathars surrendered in March, and were all burned en masse in a bonfire at the foot of this very mountain.

What is truly interesting about this is not just the Cathar faith itself (though I will be sure to tell you about that as well), but rather what the Cathars were rumored to have in their possession here. You see, four of the Cathar priests, called perfecti, or “perfect ones,” escaped the fortress before it fell, and they took with them sonething they called a “treasure,” though no one is quite sure what it was. There are rumors, of course–” Wrothschild was interrupted when another student came running up to the group.

“Professor Wrothschild, Professor Dalton says he’s found something that he wants you to have a look at. Something about the Cathars,” he said.

The young man, Eustace Bonnsworth, (What an unfortunate name, thought the professor) led David back to where the archaeology students had gathered. They were all looking at a small box, covered with dust, that Henry had just pulled out of a hole in the floor. “What is it, Henry? How does this have to do with the Cathars? This isn’t even the same fortress, the French rebuilt it, you know,” He stopped when Dalton handed him the box. It was heavy, and looked to be made of metal. There was no apparent opening, but on the top were carved the words La tasse du Christ qui a tenu le vin et la tasse de Mary qui a attrapé le sang in French. It was Middle French, but Wrothschild knew enough to decipher the meaning.

“My God...Henry, do you know what this says?” By this time, the students were all looking from one professor to another, and also at one another. Dalton just nodded.

“We have to take this back to the University. I’m sorry, but it looks like the trip will have to be cut short.”

OOC: I know it isn’t really Middle French, but it’s close enough. Also, Part II will be coming later, but if you’ve already expressed interest here (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=419164), then you can go ahead and post something, though I ask that it not be too much just yet. Assume that the box is already back in Malkyer if you do post, and don’t worry about how you found out about it. People talk, after all. If you haven't talked to me, post in the other thread or send me a TG, just to let me know what's going on. Thanks.

Royal University of Malkyer, Vancouver

“Is it all set?”

“Yeah. It’s not like you’re asking me to do anything really complicated,” replied the technician. He looked at some dials and gauges, and tuned the final settings of the laser. It was a large Class IV, one of two here at the University, and the pride and joy of the Physics Department. Professor Dalton and Professor Wrotschild stood behind the technician, all three wearing goggles to shield their eyes from the powerful beam of light.

Resting on a pedestal in front of the laser was the box they had found at Montsegur. Luckily, the technician did not speak French, and so the two were able to pass it off as an interesting, yet unimportant Cathar relic. The laser hummed for a moment, and then a thin line of blue light appeared, connecting the focus point of the laser and the box. Nothing happened for a moment, and then suddenly sparks started to fly from the box. Wrothschild yelled for the technician to stop, and he did. The laser beam faded, and the three men could see a thin line cut across the top of the box. Wrothschild rushed up to the box, followed by Dalton. The technician stayed back, not understanding what was going on.

Carefully, Wrothschild lifted the newly cut lid from the box. His shoulders shagged with disappointment. There was no Grail. There was, however, a piece of paper that seemed beautifully preserved for its age. He touched it with his finger, and found that it had been sealed in wax. Slowly, he lifted it up, and saw in the light some writing, more Middle French. He frowned. This was harder to discern. He looked at Dalton, and both said at the same time, “Middlebury.” They nodded to one another, thanked the technician, and departed.

***

Professor Middlebury was a quintessential nerd. A scholar of Medieval history, the man had taught himself Latin, Middle French, Middle English, and Occitan for fun. It was he that Profs. Dalton and Wrothschild went to for help.

In his office, they handed him the piece of waxed paper. “Can you read this?” Dalton asked impatiently.

“Well, let me take a look, I can’t very well read it with you holding it two feet from my face,” was the response. Dalton handed him the paper. Middlebury took out a pair of reading glasses, and began studying the paper. Several long moments passed. “Oh, my,” he said at last. Quickly, he began rummaging in a drawer of his desk, and took out a matchbook. Lighting a match, he held the flame up to the back side of the paper, where there was no writing. After another moment (because the heat had to transfer through the wax as well), a sketch started to form.

Dalton whistled. “I’ll be damned. Invisible ink. Clever bastards.”

The match then burned Middlebury’s fingers, and he dropped it onto the carpet and stamped it out. He fumbled for another one, and in about five minutes the sketch was completely visible. The could see now that it was no sketch, but rather a map. They looked at it, puzzled, for a moment before Middlebury exclaimed, “Why, I do believe that’s Rome!”

This time it was Wrothschild who swore. “Damnation. They hid it in the one place the Catholics would never look for Cathar treasure!”

As soon as he said this, there was a knock on the door. Dalton grabbed the map and shoved it into a drawer. Composing themselves, he opened the door a second later. In the hallway stood a man, who looked to be in his thirties. He was clean-shaven, and had a trustworthy expression on his face. He extended his hand to Dalton.

“Hello, my name’s Jeremy Forsythe. I work for the Royal Intelligence Agency. Oh, come now, my good professor. You really though Barry Hughes wouldn’t say anything to his father about your trip to France?” Dalton remembered then that Hughes’ father, Ryan, was a high-level bureaucrat in the RIA. He swore at himself.

“If you gentlemen would be so kind as to come and have a chat with me, I would be much obliged. Don’t worry about the map, this room is being monitored by my agents.”

OOC: Doom, Theao, feel free to post now.

The abbot of a small monastery, one that was isolated from society, was just finishing conducting vespers when a monk approached him.

"Greetings Brother Joseph, how may I help you on this day."
"Greetings Abbot Mark, I carry a message from Rome…”
“From Rome? Come with me to my chambers.”

The abbot led the way, mind racing at what the message could be about, the last time the Vatican had contacted the monastery was in the late 1700's.
As they reached the abbots chamber and he ensured the door was sealed he turned to the monk,

"What is the message?"
"That which was lost by the Cathar has been found."
"Thank you, would you like to stay for evening meal."
"I must return, but I thank you for your offer Abbot."

As the messenger left the Abbot's mind raced as he worked on figuring out what to do about the message.

And the Lord did say, "BUMPeth thine thread, that the lost children of Doomingsland might find it."

I'll have an actual post sometime tonight.

The black van sat parked by the side of the road across from the Colosseum. Inside was a massively complex array of wires, monitors, and gauges. Jack Donald typed quickly at one of the consoles, which displayed readouts from various reconnaissance devices in the area. Night was falling, and it would be getting dark soon.

The field team, six men, were hiding out in the bottom chambers of the Colosseum. The area was off-limits to tourists, but the simple guardrails and inattentive tour guides were not enough to keep out the operatives of RIA Section 3. The men had slipped away from six different tour groups at six different times, and met in a small room where their gear and equipment had been smuggled in over the last week, a little at a time.

Jack looked up when the door of the van opened. Roger Smith, the other techie of Section 3, got in and closed the door. He handed an ice cream cone to Donald. "Vanilla, right?"

"Yeah, thanks. It's hotter'n hell here," Donald sighed, taking a bit of ice cream. There was a vendor across the street, though he would be closing up soon, after the tourists left. "Three hours."

Smith nodded, and licked a dripping spot on his cone before it could drop onto his hand. "The arch, right?"

"That's what the map said. The Arch of Constantine (http://www.elca.org/co/mosaic/rome%20photos/Arch%20of%20Constantine.jpg), right there," he said, pointing at the arch on the far side of the ancient stadium.