information. For starters, he’d learned that Caedmon Aisquith was impersonating someone named Peter Willoughby-Jones. Making him think that Aisquith/Willoughby-Jones might be a fugitive from the law. He’d changed his own last name from Argyros to Panos after he killed Evangelos Danielides. He chose the new surname in memory of Panos Island. So he would never forget the degradation that he’d suffered and how he bested the dragon.
He’d also learned that Rubin Woolf was an expert on Francis Bacon. While he’d never heard of Francis Bacon, Mercurius was well-acquainted with the name and had been greatly interested to learn of this. Throughout the evening, he’d slyly probed and prodded, but Marnie Pritchard clearly had no knowledge of the treasure.
His evening’s work unfinished, Saviour left the bed and padded to the dresser and snatched up Marnie’s expensive leather handbag. Purse in hand, he headed for the en suite bathroom, a luxurious room boasting a claw- footed bathtub and gas fireplace. Taking care not to make any noise, he closed the door. Sitting on the commode lid, he riffled through the bag, commandeering a cherry-red mobile phone and a key ring. He muted the ringer before shoving the mobile into his trouser pocket. Fingering through the keys — the organized Marnie having labeled them for him — he removed the silver key marked SHOP.
About to exit the bathroom, he, instead, stepped over to the gilt mirror that hung above the vanity. Frowning, he leaned closer to the glass, annoyed to see two long scratch marks etched into his smooth skin. Mercurius often admired his muscled physique. The reason why Saviour took such care with his appearance, wanting his mentor to find him physically desirable.
Together, he and Mercurius made a perfect whole. Wisdom wedded to youth. Mind and body united. A fact that Saviour realized not long after Mercurius had found him hiding in the Agia Sophia. That was when Mercurius had offered him the opportunity to be reborn, his beloved bestowing upon him a gift that could never be repaid. Though Saviour happily made the effort, Mercurius the only man, other than Ari, whom he had ever trusted. Dishonesty a trait bred in the womb.
As he left the bathroom, Saviour saw a length of fabric hanging from the back of a chair. A Fendi silk jacquard scarf.
As he stared at the sleeping woman, he wrinkled his nose. Patchouli. A certain Dusseldorf banker had also doused himself with the sickening fragrance, the fused aroma of patchouli and sauerkraut having triggered a murderous rage.
Saviour wrapped one end of the silk scarf around his palm. Just as he was about to perform the same motion with his other hand, Marnie opened her eyes and drowsily smiled at him.
“Don’t go… sweet sorrow and all that.”
Dangling the length of silk, Saviour slowly trailed it over her bare breasts.
CHAPTER 49
“ ‘God is in the details.’ Who said that, Flaubert or Mies van der Rohe?” Edie, propped against a menagerie of flounced pillows in the middle of the bed, peered over the top of an art magazine.
“No bloody idea.” Caedmon sat on the other side of the guest bedroom at a large oak desk, his arse planted on another of Rubin’s unbearably uncomfortable chairs. This one a Gothic revival fit for a feudal baron. “On second thought, didn’t Michelangelo first coin the phrase?”
“Well, whoever said it, I agree with Gloria Steinem”—Edie wickedly grinned—“ ‘the goddess is in the questions.’ ”
“Well put.”
Craning his neck, Caedmon glanced at the clock on the night table: 10:05 P.M. Time to set out on his quest, smash his nose to the grindstone, and decipher the rare 1614 frontispiece.
“Still convinced that the Muses have something to do with Bacon’s secret message?”
“Mmmm… er, yes.” Elbows on the table, he rubbed his eyes. “In Greek mythology the Nine Muses, offspring of Zeus and Mnemosyne, the goddess of memory, divinely inspired the arts. But more important than that, in a time before the printing press was invented, the Nine Muses were the source of oral knowledge.”
Tossing her magazine aside, Edie got off the bed. Silk, satin, and tasseled pillows tumbled in her wake. Unlike Rubin’s boudoir, the guest suite was a veritable explosion of clashing Victorian pattern, the color green being the only common denominator.
Edie stood behind his chair. Wrapping one hand around a spiny Gothic chair post, she reached over top of him and snatched the Mylar-covered print. “Okay, we’ve got Nine Muses with Pallas Athena, the tenth muse, in the twelve o’clock position. We can only hope that a picture isn’t really worth a thousand words. Otherwise it’s going to be a
“And that’s a mere sampling of the mythological objects. We mustn’t overlook the occult symbols — the two columns, the ladder, the tree, the mulberry, and of course, the All-Seeing Eye.”
Lifting her wool skirt, she hitched a hip onto the edge of the table. “Yeah, I noticed the ladder, the tree, and the piece of fruit in each of the muse panels, but I thought that was just a decorative element.”
“Trust me,
“As in alchemy, Kabbalah, and magic, right?” She scooted closer, her outer thigh pressing against his forearm.
“Correct. The ladder symbolizes magic, specifically the type of celestial divination practiced by John Dee. Since one can climb up
“Ten seems to be a popular number. There are, after all, ten muses illustrated on the frontispiece.”
He wearily nodded, having already tried, unsuccessfully, to use it in a numeric cipher.
“And finally there’s the mulberry, which changes in color from white to red to black during the ripening process. The change in color symbolizes the three stages of the alchemical process, known by their Latin names:
“White, red, and black. The same three colors that make up the Templar Beauseant.” Using her arm to support her upper body, Edie reclined back. “Coincidence or do you think the Knights Templar were practicing alchemy in their secret sanctuary?”
“I won’t know the answer to that until I decipher the frontispiece. That’s the nature of the esoteric beast, the creature too often leads one into a bloody labyrinth,” he uncharitably grumbled. Framing either side of his face with the palms of his hands, he, again, stared at the engraved illustration. “The secret of the Templar relic could well be hidden in this frontispiece, and I’m determined to break the code.”
“You do know that your interest in the Knights Templar borders on idolatry,” Edie chided, pointedly glancing at his silver ring.
Caedmon let his hands drop to the tabletop. “The first person to launch that accusation was my aunt Winifred, a sharp-tongued spinster with whom I spent the summers of my youth. She lived and died in the hillside village of Garway in far-flung Herefordshire. The only noteworthy attraction in the village was St. Michael’s where, in the twelfth century, the Knights Templar constructed a circular church.”
“Is the circular church still standing?”
“Alas, no, but the foundation of the Templar church is visible.”
“I’m guessing that’s all it took to fuel your youthful imagination.”
“The vicar, something of an amateur historian, was quite knowledgeable about the Templars.” He smiled, the memory a pleasant one. “That first summer I haunted the local library, reading everything related to the Knights Templar. The more I learned about their heroic exploits in the Holy Land, the more enamored I became. Aunt Winnie put her foot down when she caught me creeping about in the garden dressed in a white bedsheet, clutching
