Gene of Isis

Inside, I inquired after the chief librarian, whose name I had foolishly failed to learn. I was told to wait by one of the several gentlemen librarians. I couldn’t see a woman in the place and yet there was nothing to indicate that the library was for men only.

A short while later, a middle-aged, dark-haired Frenchman introduced himself to me as the assistant to the chief librarian. ‘My name is Mr Jenkins, Mrs Devere. I hear you are a translator, interested in our Vatican archives.’

‘That is very true, Monsieur Jenkins,’ I responded in French. ‘I also wanted to inquire about a journey to Rome that some of your colleagues are embarking on in the near future. Mama and I also wish to make this trip, but as we have no trusted male company to accompany us, we wondered if—’

‘Why, yes, of course.’ He was quick to allay any doubt that we would not be welcome in the party, and did not bother asking after my husband. I was fast discovering that the French were more liberal in their views than the English. ‘I am so very sorry that our curator is elsewhere today,’ Jenkins said. ‘I feel sure he’ll wish to meet you.’

Why did it seem like my reputation had preceded me? ‘Really? Why do you say that, for I am no one of consequence?’

‘Well,’ Jenkins paused to smile, or perhaps to think, ‘it is so seldom a sister takes an interest in our work, especially an English woman.’

He made me smile, for I was not surprised to hear this. ‘Is my French very ill spoken?’

‘Not at all,’ he assured me. ‘It is your countenance that gives your origin away.’

‘You are too kind,’ I replied, sensing both compliment and derision in his statement.

He had a lovely aura though; not extraordinary, but showing a good person. There were little muddy patches around his third eye and gut, which I translated as meaning that he was fighting his instinct about something, and that he had some major concern with processing higher knowledge. Then again, it could add up to a suggestion that his imagination was a little stifled. Mr Jenkins presented as a scholar, but he lacked the individualistic air of an artist.

‘If it pleases you, Madame, I can show you to the archive room.’ He gestured to the door that led to the grand foyer. ‘No one is in there today, but you are most welcome to have a poke about.’

My heart started beating nineteen to the dozen. What an opportunity. And for a woman at that! ‘It would be a wonderful opportunity. Thank you, Mr Jenkins.’

‘Right this way.’ He led off. ‘How many languages do you speak, Mrs Devere?’

‘Six,’ I stated plainly, trying not to sound boastful. ‘And a little Hebrew.’

‘Then you ought to fare well. You are required to sign our guest book and give a contact address in Paris for security reasons. We couldn’t have any of our archives going missing without knowing where to start looking, now could we?’ Mr Jenkins said as we headed into another wing of the building.

‘Not a problem,’ I replied.

‘Our curator could return today, but if he misses you, can I arrange an appointment for tomorrow?’

‘I would be most grateful if you would.’ I was about to ask the curator’s name but I was distracted when double doors were parted before me.

It was a huge room we entered, with tall windows along one wall. Around the other walls were shelves piled high with old books, manuscripts, scrolls and parchments. More of the same covered the desks, of which there were many. There were several glass cabinets with sheets of crumbling parchment presented for viewing and translation.

‘These texts are under glass for good reasons, but you are free to handle everything else. There are paper and pens aplenty lying about, so if you desire to jot anything down, please do so,’ Jenkins concluded, appearing eager to depart. ‘Could I have some tea brought to you?’

I smiled gratefully. ‘That really would be spoiling me, Mr Jenkins.’

‘Then I shall see that it is done, Madame. Good day.’ He bowed and left me in the middle of a historian’s paradise.

‘What to read first?’ My head was swimming as I considered the choice. I looked at the open book on a desk beside me. It was a Latin translation of The Works of Saint Ignatius of Antioch. The book was open at a copy of a letter written by Bishop Clement of Alexandria to a friend, which dated the letter to about the year 200AD. The bishop was talking about the Gospel of Mark, or part thereof, that was to be suppressed because it did not conform to the church’s teachings.

For even if they should say something true, one who loves the Truth should not, even so, agree with them.

For not all the true things are the Truth, nor should that Truth which seems true according to human opinions, be preferred to the true Truth—that according to the faith.

To them one must never give way; nor when they put forward their falsifications, should no one concede that the secret gospel is by Mark—but should deny it on oath. For not all true things are to be said to all men.

‘The secret gospel of Mark?’ I looked around at the masses of texts and laughed at my chances of finding the document.

A knock at the door announced that my tea had arrived. It was wheeled in by an elderly lady who set it down on a small table that was free of paperwork and books.

I thanked her kindly, to which she gave a curtsey and a ‘Madame’ and departed silently with her trolley, closing the door again.

I did fancy a cup of tea, and it would allow me time to ponder which text would serve me best to read.

I poured my tea, and with my first sip the solution came to me—an itch on my left palm. ‘Albray, Albray,