The Omega Factor by Steve Berry

Author:Steve Berry
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: None
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 2022-06-14T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 38

The village of Las Illas sat niched against the Pyrénées, in a swath of mountainous terrain that lay at the fringe of what would one day be called France. The only road leading to it was lined with tamarisk, an occasional almond tree, and plenty of silver poplars whose white leaves shook against the blue sky. It had existed for over fifteen hundred years, once an important settlement, a place where Hannibal had encamped after crossing the Pyrénées in 218 BC. Its small cathedral was classic Romanesque. A fortified church, built of solid masonry, with the narrowest of loopholes serving as windows. The town was one of the earliest Christian strongholds west of Rome and, up to AD 600, housed a bishop. By 1200, it had dropped to the status of a mere parish, its church inside cruelly denuded and gaunt, all of the silver and gold sold off long ago. One treasure, though, had been spared. It occupied a side chapel without windows, which cast it in shadow and made it hard to see.

An altarpiece. Painted on wood, representing Saint Michael.

On the morning of June 9, 1210, a small contingent of soldiers approached the town’s outer walls. The main attack force was over a hundred kilometers away, ravaging the Languedoc, rooting out heretics, killing Cathars. The Albigensian Crusade was proceeding, town after town falling. This group was a special contingent selected by the Dominicans to carry out a clandestine operation under direct orders from the pope. They’d broken from the main army and traveled south, staying off the roads, making their way past the forested foothills and up into the mountains.

Waiting for them on the path ahead stood a man wearing a faded bonnet. He had a lean face, close-shaven like a priest, with a blue jowl and a long chin, the eyes small and deep-set. One of those inscrutable Spanish faces that suggested much and told little. He was clearly aged, but walked with a springy step, shifting on his feet like a cat. They’d been warned about him. Half priest, half villain, superstitious, devout, a man who would knife anybody for a silver coin. No surprise that he was the first to greet them.

“We are here for les Vautours,” one of the soldiers called out.

The old man waved them off. “Leave. Now. You are wasting your time.”

None of them were in the mood for defiance. They’d experienced enough of that over the past few months, and their response had always been the same.

“Deal with him,” the Dominican who’d come south with them ordered.

Two of their number drew swords and advanced, skewering the old man.

The body dropped to the dusty road.

The contingent proceeded ahead through the open gate, into a small central square. The people here existed in relative isolation, belonging to nobody but themselves, the long uphill trek more of a barrier than a link with the outside world. Living here with the wind, and the menace of the rocky heights, it was easy to understand how the residents became comatose, shut out, buried into themselves.

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