Origin: (Robert Langdon Book 5) Page 35

  Without a word, father and son climbed out of the earth, away from death, and back into the light. Once they were outside in the blazing Spanish sun, the king crouched down and looked eight-year-old Julián in the eye.

  “Memento mori,” the monarch whispered. “Remember death. Even for those who wield great power, life is brief. There is only one way to triumph over death, and that is by making our lives masterpieces. We must seize every opportunity to show kindness and to love fully. I see in your eyes that you have your mother’s generous soul. Your conscience will be your guide. When life is dark, let your heart show you the way.”

  Decades later, Julián needed no reminders that he had done precious little to make his life a masterpiece. In fact, he had barely managed to escape the king’s shadow and establish himself as his own man.

  I’ve disappointed my father in every way.

  For years, Julián had followed his father’s advice and let his heart show the way; but it was a tortuous road when his heart longed for a Spain so utterly contrary to that of his father. Julián’s dreams for his beloved country were so bold that they could never be uttered until his father’s death, and even then, Julián had no idea how his actions would be received, not only by the royal palace, but by the entire nation. All Julián could do was wait, keep an open heart, and respect tradition.

  And then, three months ago, everything had changed.

  I met Ambra Vidal.

  The vivacious, strong-minded beauty had turned Julián’s world upside down. Within days of their first meeting, Julián finally understood the words of his father. Let your heart show you the way … and seize every opportunity to love fully! The elation of falling in love was like nothing Julián had ever experienced, and he sensed he might finally be taking his very first steps toward making his life a masterpiece.

  Now, however, as the prince stared blankly down the road ahead, he was overcome by a foreboding sense of loneliness and isolation. His father was dying; the woman he loved was not speaking to him; and he had just admonished his trusted mentor, Bishop Valdespino.

  “Prince Julián,” the bishop urged gently. “We should go. Your father is frail, and he is eager to speak to you.”

  Julián turned slowly to his father’s lifelong friend. “How much time do you think he has?” he whispered.

  Valdespino’s voice trembled as if he were on the verge of tears. “He asked me not to worry you, but I sense the end is coming faster than anyone anticipated. He wants to say good-bye.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me where we were going?” Julián asked. “Why all the lies and secrecy?”

  “I’m sorry, I had no choice. Your father gave me explicit orders. He ordered me to insulate you from the outside world and from the news until he had a chance to speak to you personally.”

  “Insulate me from … what news?”

  “I think it will be best if you let your father explain.”

  Julián studied the bishop a long moment. “Before I see him, there is something I need to know. Is he lucid? Is he rational?”

  Valdespino gave him an uncertain look. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because,” Julián replied, “his demands tonight seem strange and impulsive.”

  Valdespino nodded sadly. “Impulsive or not, your father is still the king. I love him, and I do as he commands. We all do.”

  CHAPTER 73

  STANDING SIDE BY side at the display case, Robert Langdon and Ambra Vidal peered down at the William Blake manuscript, illuminated by the soft glow of the oil lamp. Father Beña had wandered off to straighten up a few pews, politely giving them some privacy.

  Langdon was having trouble reading the tiny letters in the poem’s handwritten text, but the larger header at the top of the page was perfectly legible.

  The Four Zoas

  Seeing the words, Langdon instantly felt a ray of hope. The Four Zoas was the title of one of Blake’s best-known prophetic poems—a massive work that was divided into nine “nights,” or chapters. The poem’s themes, as Langdon recalled from his college reading, centered on the demise of conventional religion and the eventual dominance of science.

  Langdon scanned down the stanzas of text, seeing the handwritten lines come to an end halfway down the page at an elegantly sketched “finis divisionem”—the graphic equivalent of “The End.”

  This is the last page of the poem, he realized. The finale of one of Blake’s prophetic masterpieces!

  Langdon leaned in and squinted at the tiny handwriting, but he couldn’t quite read the text in the dim lantern light.

  Ambra was already crouched down, her face an inch from the glass. She quietly skimmed the poem, pausing to read one of the lines out loud. “‘And Man walks forth from midst of the fires, the evil is all consum’d.’” She turned to Langdon. “The evil is all consumed?”

  Langdon considered it, nodding vaguely. “I believe Blake is referring to the eradication of corrupt religion. A religionless future was one of his recurring prophecies.”

  Ambra looked hopeful. “Edmond said his favorite line of poetry was a prophecy that he hoped would come true.”

  “Well,” Langdon said, “a future without religion is certainly something Edmond wanted. How many letters in that line?”

  Ambra began counting but shook her head. “Over fifty.”

  She returned to skimming the poem, pausing a moment later. “How about this one? ‘The Expanding eyes of Man behold the depths of wondrous worlds.’ ”

  “Possible,” Langdon said, pondering its meaning. Human intellect will continue to grow and evolve over time, enabling us to see more deeply into the truth.

  “Too many letters again,” Ambra said. “I’ll keep going.”

  As she continued down the page, Langdon began pacing pensively behind her. The lines she’d already read echoed in his mind and conjured a distant memory of his reading Blake in a Princeton “Brit lit” class.

  Images began forming, as sometimes happened with Langdon’s eidetic memory. These images conjured new images, in endless succession. Suddenly, standing in the crypt, Langdon flashed on his professor, who, upon the class’s completion of The Four Zoas, stood before them and asked the age-old questions: Which would you choose? A world without religion? Or a world without science? Then the professor had added: Clearly, William Blake had a preference, and nowhere is his hope for the future better summarized than in the final line of this epic poem.

  Langdon drew a startled breath and spun toward Ambra, who was still poring over Blake’s text.

  “Ambra—skip down to the end of the poem!” he said, now recalling the poem’s final line.

  Ambra looked to the end of the poem. After focusing a moment, she turned back to him with an expression of wide-eyed disbelief.

  Langdon joined her at the book, peering down at the text. Now that he knew the line, he was able to make out the faint handwritten letters:

  The dark religions are departed & sweet science reigns.

  “‘The dark religions are departed,’” Ambra read aloud. “‘And sweet science reigns.’”

  The line was not only a prophecy that Edmond would endorse, it was essentially a synopsis of his presentation earlier tonight.

  Religions will fade … and science will rule.

  Ambra began carefully counting the letters in the line, but Langdon knew it was unnecessary. This is it. No doubt. His mind had already turned to accessing Winston and launching Edmond’s presentation. Langdon’s plan for how to make that happen was something he would need to explain to Ambra in private.

  He turned to Father Beña, who was just returning. “Father?” he asked. “We’re almost done here. Would you mind going upstairs and telling the Guardia agents to summon the helicopter? We’ll need to leave at once.”

  “Of course,” Beña said, and headed up the stairs. “I hope you found what you came for. I’ll see you upstairs in a moment.”

  As the priest disappeared up the stairs, Ambra turned away from the book with a loo
k of sudden alarm.

  “Robert,” she said. “This line is too short. I counted it twice. It’s only forty-six letters. We need forty-seven.”

  “What?” Langdon walked over to her, squinting at the text and carefully counting each handwritten letter. “The dark religions are departed & sweet science reigns.” Sure enough, he arrived at forty-six. Baffled, he studied the line again. “Edmond definitely said forty-seven, not forty-six?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Langdon reread the line. But this must be it, he thought. What am I missing?

  Carefully, he scanned every letter in the final line of Blake’s poem. He was almost to the end when he saw it.

  … & sweet science reigns.

  “The ampersand,” Langdon blurted. “The symbol Blake used instead of writing out the word ‘and.’”

  Ambra eyed him strangely and then shook her head. “Robert, if we substitute the word ‘and’ … then the line has forty-eight letters. Too many.”

  Not true. Langdon smiled. It’s a code within a code.

  Langdon marveled at Edmond’s cunning little twist. The paranoid genius had used a simple typographic trick to ensure that even if someone discovered which line of poetry was his favorite, they would still not be able to type it correctly.

  The ampersand code, Langdon thought. Edmond remembered it.

  The origin of the ampersand was always one of the first things Langdon taught his symbology classes. The symbol “&” was a logogram—literally a picture representing a word. While many people assumed the symbol derived from the English word “and,” it actually derived from the Latin word et. The ampersand’s unusual design “&” was a typographical fusion of the letters E and T—the ligature still visible today in computer fonts like Trebuchet, whose ampersand “&” clearly echoed its Latin origin.

  Langdon would never forget that the week after he had taught Edmond’s class about the ampersand, the young genius had shown up wearing a T-shirt printed with the message—Ampersand phone home!—a playful allusion to the Spielberg movie about an extraterrestrial named “ET” who was trying to find his way home.

  Now, standing over Blake’s poem, Langdon was able to picture Edmond’s forty-seven-letter password perfectly in his mind.

  thedarkreligionsaredepartedetsweetsciencereigns

  Quintessential Edmond, Langdon thought, quickly sharing with Ambra the clever trick Edmond had used to add a level of security to his password.

  As the truth dawned on her, Ambra began smiling as broadly as Langdon had seen her smile since they met. “Well,” she said, “I guess if we ever had any doubts that Edmond Kirsch was a geek …”

  The two of them laughed together, taking the moment to exhale in the solitude of the crypt.

  “You found the password,” she said, sounding grateful. “And I feel sorrier than ever that I lost Edmond’s phone. If we still had it, we could trigger Edmond’s presentation right now.”

  “Not your fault,” he said reassuringly. “And, as I told you, I know how to find Winston.”

  At least I think I do, he mused, hoping he was right.

  As Langdon pictured the aerial view of Barcelona, and the unusual puzzle that lay ahead, the silence of the crypt was shattered by a jarring sound echoing down the stairwell.

  Upstairs, Father Beña was screaming and calling their names.

  CHAPTER 74

  “HURRY! MS. VIDAL … Professor Langdon … come up here quickly!” Langdon and Ambra bounded up the crypt stairs as Father Beña’s desperate shouts continued. When they reached the top step, Langdon rushed out onto the sanctuary floor but was immediately lost in a curtain of blackness.

  I can’t see!

  As he inched forward in the darkness, his eyes strained to adjust from the glow of the oil lamps below. Ambra arrived beside him, squinting as well.

  “Over here!” Beña shouted with desperation.

  They moved toward the sound, finally spotting the priest on the murky fringes of light that spilled from the stairwell. Father Beña was on his knees, crouched over the dark silhouette of a body.

  They were at Beña’s side in a moment, and Langdon recoiled to see the body of Agent Díaz lying on the floor, his head twisted grotesquely. Díaz was flat on his stomach, but his head had been wrenched 180 degrees backward, so his lifeless eyes aimed up at the cathedral ceiling. Langdon cringed in horror, now understanding the panic in Father Beña’s screams.

  A cold rush of fear coursed through him, and he stood abruptly, probing the darkness for any sign of movement in the cavernous church.

  “His gun,” Ambra whispered, pointing to Díaz’s empty holster. “It’s gone.” She peered into the darkness around them and called out, “Agent Fonseca?!”

  In the blackness nearby, there was a sudden shuffling of footsteps on tile and the sound of bodies colliding in a fierce struggle. Then, with startling abruptness, the deafening explosion of a gunshot rang out at close range. Langdon, Ambra, and Beña all jolted backward, and as the gunshot echoed across the sanctuary, they heard a pained voice urging—“¡Corre!” Run!

  A second gunshot exploded, followed by a heavy thud—the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the floor.

  Langdon had already grabbed Ambra’s hand and was pulling her toward the deep shadows near the sidewall of the sanctuary. Father Beña arrived a step behind them, all three now cowering in rigid silence against the cold stone.

  Langdon’s eyes probed the darkness as he struggled to make sense of what was going on.

  Someone just killed Díaz and Fonseca! Who’s in here with us? And what do they want?

  Langdon could imagine only one logical answer: the killer lurking in the darkness of Sagrada Família had not come here to murder two random Guardia agents … he had come for Ambra and Langdon.

  Someone is still trying to silence Edmond’s discovery.

  Suddenly a bright flashlight flared in the middle of the sanctuary floor, the beam swinging back and forth in a wide arc, moving in their direction. Langdon knew they had only seconds before the beam reached them.

  “This way,” Beña whispered, pulling Ambra along the wall in the opposite direction. Langdon followed as the light swung closer. Beña and Ambra suddenly cut hard to the right, disappearing into an opening in the stone, and Langdon plunged in after them—immediately stumbling on an unseen set of stairs. Ambra and Beña climbed onward as Langdon regained his footing and continued after them, looking back to see the beam of light appear just beneath him, illuminating the bottom steps.

  Langdon froze in the darkness, waiting.

  The light remained there a long moment, and then it began growing brighter.

  He’s coming this way!

  Langdon could hear Ambra and Beña ascending the stairs above him as stealthily as possible. He spun and launched himself after them, but again stumbled, colliding with a wall and realizing that the staircase was not straight, but curved. Pressing a hand against the wall for guidance, Langdon began circling upward in a tight spiral, quickly understanding where he was.

  Sagrada Família’s infamously treacherous spiral staircase.

  He raised his eyes and saw a very faint glow filtering down from the light wells above, just enough illumination to reveal the narrow shaft that enclosed him. Langdon felt his legs tighten, and he stalled on the stairs, overcome by claustrophobia in the crushingly small passage.

  Keep climbing! His rational mind urged him upward but his muscles cramped in fear.

  Somewhere beneath him, Langdon could hear the sound of heavy footsteps approaching from the sanctuary. He forced himself to keep moving, following the spiraling steps upward as fast as he could. Above him, the faint light grew brighter as Langdon passed an opening in the wall—a wide slit through which he briefly glimpsed the city lights. A blast of cool air hit him as he dashed past this light well, and he plunged back into darkness as he circled higher.

  Footsteps entered the staircase below, and the flashlight probed erratically up the center shaf
t. Langdon passed another light well as the pursuing footsteps grew louder, his assailant now charging faster up the stairs behind him.

  Langdon caught up with Ambra and Father Beña, who was now gasping for breath. Langdon peered over the inner edge of the stairwell into the plunging center shaft. The drop was dizzying—a narrow, circular hole that plummeted through the eye of what looked like a giant spiraling nautilus. There was virtually no barrier, just an ankle-high inner lip that provided no protection whatsoever. Langdon had to fight off a wave of nausea.

  He turned his eyes back to the darkness of the shaft overhead. Langdon had heard that there were more than four hundred stairs in this structure; if so, there was no way they would reach the top before the armed man below caught up with them.

  “Both of you … go!” Beña gasped, stepping aside and urging Langdon and Ambra to pass him.

  “There’s no chance of that, Father,” Ambra said, reaching down to help the old priest.

  Langdon admired her protective instinct, but he also knew that fleeing up these stairs was suicide, most likely ending with bullets in their backs. Of the two animal instincts for survival—fight or flight—flight was no longer an option.

  We’ll never make it.

  Letting Ambra and Father Beña press on, Langdon turned, planted his feet, and faced down the spiral staircase. Below him, the flashlight beam tracked closer. He backed against the wall and crouched in the shadows, waiting until the light hit the stairs beneath him. The killer suddenly rounded the curve into view—a dark form running with both hands outstretched, one clutching the flashlight and the other a handgun.

  Langdon reacted on instinct, exploding from his crouch and launching himself through the air, feetfirst. The man saw him and began to raise his gun just as Langdon’s heels drove into his chest with a powerful thrust, driving the man back into the wall of the stairwell.

  The next few seconds were a blur.