same cell I was?'
She shook her head. 'Ast the head jailer. I jus' work here.'
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Atlanta, Georgia
Manuel's Tavern
The next evening
Lang and Francis found a booth, scarred with fraternity symbols, names, and dates clumsily carved into wood long yellowed by a half-century of human touch. Lang had not expected the food to improve in his absence. He was not disappointed. He also was not disappointed that the place was noisy, cluttered with five decades of political memorabilia, and filled with Emory grad students.
He felt he had come home.
'What's good?' he had asked a waiter in a T-shirt, soiled apron, jeans, and sneakers.
'The beer. Anything else, an' you better try McDonald's.'
Same straight line, same punch line.
'I don't suppose the salmon is fresh,' Francis asked.
'Father, I ain't lyin' to a priest,' the young man said. 'If Darwin's right, that fish been outta water long enough to grow legs.' Both Lang and Francis ordered burgers, the most difficult thing on the menu to screw up.
Francis passed a plastic basket of fries, its paper liner translucent with grease. 'Cuius est divisio, alterius est electio.' One divides; the other selects.
Lang dumped about half on his plate, glumly noting that those on the bottom were well charred. 'I should have chosen the half that weren't burned to ashes.'
Francis regarded the red in the center of the burger he had ordered well done. 'Neither of us come here for the food.'
'I didn't come as a penance, either,' Lang growled.
'No,' Francis agreed, 'but where else in Atlanta can we eat, drink, and try to unscramble that inscription without the waiter trying to turn the table?'
Like European establishments, a single beer would entitle the customer to remain at the table no matter how many people were waiting. Manuel Maloof, the original proprietor, had never believed in rushing his patrons through pitchers of beer, meals, or anything else.
Dinner, such as it was, was eaten with little conversation. Neither man wanted to be the first to mention the absence of Gurt, who had insisted on joining them here several times. Twice Lang glanced up from his meal, half expecting to see her returning from the restroom.
Finally, he shoved the plate away, half the burger remaining, and passed a copy of the Montsegur inscription to Francis. 'Here are the actual words. See what you can make out of them.'
Francis also had no problem leaving the rest of his meal uneaten. Gurt had apparently been at his elbow, too. He was relieved not to have to continue the charade of two old friends dining together as though nothing had changed.
He fished in a pocket, producing a pair of glasses, which he meticulously fastened around his ears. 'First, tell me a little about the Emperor Julian-specifically, why he'd have an inscription carved on a wall in France.'
Lang reached out to pick a fry from his plate, more to have something to do with his hands than renewed interest. 'Like I said, last pagan emperor of Rome, hated the Christian religion, which had become acceptable, thought it dissed Roman culture. Before becoming emperor, he was governor of that part of Gaul.'
Francis nodded, looking at Lang rather than the paper on the table before him. 'Coincidence the carving was at the last stand of the Cathars?'
'Don't think so.' Lang reached for another fry, thought better of it, and returned his hands to his lap. ''As you know, the Cathars were heretics, the object of, what, the Fourth Crusade?'
Francis nodded. 'Thirteenth century, 1208, current events to you, but yeah. The Cathars questioned, if not denied, Christ's human birth or death, held him to be an angelic figure. They didn't particularly care where they worshiped, so a cave would have done fine, particularly one they could fortify. Innocent III, the Pope, got Simon de Montfort, father of the one in English history, to besiege the place for almost four years.'
Lang leaned forward, his mind fastening on a single object. ''And the Merovingian kings?'
'My, but you are wandering far afield from ancient history tonight. Now you've jumped back to the fifth to seventh centuries. The kings of that dynasty ruled southwestern France, claimed they-were both the physical and spiritual heirs of Christ since His family fled there from what's now Palestine after the crucifixion. A couple of interesting characteristics: They were friendly to Jews, unlike any other European monarchs of that time, and believed their hair was the source of their strength.'
'Like Sampson.'
'Interestingly, yes. Sampson was a Nazarite, just as many people think Christ was. Jesus, the Nazarite, mistranslated to 'Jesus of Nazareth.' As for the Merovingians, unsubstantiated rumors still surface occasionally of both lateral and lineal descendants.'
'Rumors the Church finds discomforting,' Lang interjected. Francis's eyebrows rose as a smile crept across his face. 'Food for the apostate mind. Like yours.'
It was an old subject, one the two friends had debated often but one that served no real purpose tonight, save one.
'Let's agree that the Languedoc area of France seems to have spawned more than its share of heretics, religious wars, and legends concerning Christ.'
'No argument about that.'
Lang was eyeing the french fries again when the waiter picked his plate up. 'Done?'
'Lang nodded. ''Yeah, thanks.'
The young man surveyed the amount of food left on each plate. 'Told you guys you should consider McDonald's.'
'Veritas nihil veretur nisi abscondi, ' Francis said.
'It's not the truth I fear, it's the tip,' the waiter said.
Where else but at Manuel's?
Lang watched the retreating back of their server. 'So where were we?'
'Somewhere in the turbulent history of the Languedoc.'
'Oh yeah. I think the place, the main room at Montsegur, was a library, maybe a repository for early Christian writings the Cathars somehow had managed to salvage, maybe even something the survivors of Christ's family brought with them. Something Christian, anyway, since it drew Julian's attention. In addition to hating Christians, he was a prankster. He would have loved to embarrass the early Church in some way. Next, let's speculate the Cathars found this library or whatever it was, made a church out of it.'
'And a fortress,' Francis interrupted. 'What you say makes sense. When Montsegur was besieged, the Cathars finally surrendered on the basis they wouldn't have to come down from the place for another couple of days. Perhaps time to secrete whatever they had, like the library.'
'The library Hitler would have loved to possess,' Lang said, signaling for a refill of the pitcher of beer. ''You know he had a passion for the supernatural or religious. Apparently, Skorzeny found something, truckloads of something.'
The same waiter substituted a full pitcher for the empty one.
Francis filled his glass and stretched out into the corner of the booth, putting his feet up on the bench. 'Okay, so much for the why of what you're looking for. Let's take a look at this inscription. I make it to be something like 'The Emperor Julian accuses-' '
'Accusatem is a noun, not a verb,' Lang pointed out, making no effort to conceal his glee at his friend's mistake.
'Knew that-just wanted to see if you're on your toes. Problem is, we don't really know if 'we're dealing with a
