Fifth Gospel
Authors: Adriana Koulias
To Rudolf Steiner,
Who ga
ve the world ‘The Fifth Gospel’,
And to the
Good Men and Women of Montségur,
May we help you to keep your
promises
FIFTH GOSPEL
A Novel
Adriana Koulias
Zuriel Press
First published 2012 by Zuriel Press Pty Ltd
Copyright © Adriana Koulias 2012
Adriana Koulias asserts her moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright Act 1968.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted
by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication Entry:
Koulias, Adriana.
Fifth Gospel/Adriana Koulias
ISBN
9780987462008
Cover design by Adriana Koulias
Adriana Koulias
was born in Brazil and moved to Australia with her family when she was nine years old. She has a passion for Philosophy, History and Esoteric Science, and lectures internationally on these topics. Adriana has written three other books, all Best Sellers:
Temple of the Grail
The Seal
The Sixth Key
Characters
MONTSÉGUR
Bertrand Marty - Bishop of the Cathar Church
Guilhabert des Castres
- Bishop of the Cathar Church
Lea
- Mysterious messenger
Marqu
ésia de Lantar - Wealthy ‘perfecta’
Mat
teu the Troubadour - Templar emissary
Pierre Roger of Mirepoix
-
Seigneur
of Montségur
Raimon de Aguilhar
-
Socio
of Bertrand Marty
Raimon
de Parella -
Seigneur
of Montségur
PALESTINE
Yeshua’s Family
Jacob the Nazarite
- Brother of Yeshua
Jose
- Brother of Yeshua
Joseph of Bethlehem
- Husband of Mariam
Jude
- Brother of Yeshua & member of the Sicarri
Simon Zealotes -
Brother of Yeshua & member of the Sicarri
M
ariam - Daughter of Anne, mother of Yeshua
Yeshu
a - First son of Joseph and Mariam
Jesus’
Family
Cleophas
- Brother of Joseph
James the younger
- Son of Cleophas and Mary
Jesus
- Son of Mary and Joseph
Joseph of Nazareth
- The Carpenter
Mary
- Mother of Jesus
Mary
Cleophas - Wife of Cleophas
Salome
- Servant of Mary
Male
Disciples of Christ Jesus
Andrew
- Son of Jonah
James the Elder
- Son of Zebedee
James the Y
ounger - Son of Cleophas
John
- Son of Zebedee
Judas
of Cariot - Known as Judas Iscariot
Jude
- Stepbrother of Jesus
Lazarus
- Brother of Mary Magdalene
Matthew
- The tax collector
Nathanael bar Tolomei
- Otherwise known as Bartholomew
Philip
, a fisherman
Simon
-Peter - Son of Jonah
Simon
Zealotes - Brother of Yeshua, stepbrother of Jesus
Thomas
the Twin - Cross-eyed merchant
Female Disciples of Jesus
Christ
Joana Chuiza
- Wife of a Captain of Herod
Lea
h - A widow
Magdalena
- Otherwise known as Mary Magdalene
Mariam
- Mother of Yeshua
Mary
- Wife of Cleophas
Salome
- Midwife and servant
Suzann
a - Servant of Claudia Procula
Hebrews
Ananias - Father-in-law of Caiaphas
Caiaphas
- Head priest of the Sanhedrin
Herod the Great
- King of Israel
Herod Antipas
- Son of Herod the Great
Herodias
- Wife of Herod Antipas
John the Baptist
- Nazarite, son of Elisabeth and Zachariah
Joseph of Arimathea
- Israelite Pharisee, member of the Sanhedrin
Nicodemus
- Israelite Pharisee, member of the Sanhedrin
Salome -
Daughter of Herodias
Romans
Abenader - Roman Centurion in charge of Crucifixions
Anius Rufus
- Roman Procurator
Claudia Procula
- Wife of Pontius Pilate
Gaius Cassius Longinus
- Roman Centurion Initiate of Mithras
Pontius Pilate
- Roman Procurator
Septimus -
Roman Sergeant
uthor’s Note
In
German the word Minne comes from the Gothic word Munni and means a remembrance or memory of love. Minnesingers, Troubadours and Bards were the keepers and finders of the memories of love, of the mysteries of the soul and spirit, those eternal truths that have always existed even before the world was capable of understanding them. Their ‘songs’ disseminated these truths in a way that was acceptable, in preparation for the future. This book longs to be such a ‘song’ and to disseminate such truths. The vessel may be a fictional one but the content is a mystical fact given to the world by the great philosopher Rudolf Steiner.
Having said this,
I leave the reader entirely free to test this song’s veracity by turning the page, for as Novalis tells us:
The empire of love is open,
The fable starts to unfold.
MEETING LEA
Montségur, France, 1244
I
am
not a troubadour and yet I sing. I am a bishop and yet I do not belong to any church. I have come by what I know by way of ignorance, and what I possess is mine because I am dispossessed. That is how I have arrived at who I am – by sacrificing certainty.
But w
ho am I?
I am
old. I do not imagine myself old, no, but when I look at my hands I see they are veined, when I feel my face I know it is full of creases, and when I walk I am reminded that my joints are not always prepared to follow. Alas! I have lived long enough, near fifty years without mishap, and I dare say I should have lived many more had destiny allowed it, but it has not. It has set me upon this difficult journey and will lead me on until I reach that place which you shall know in the end, if my tongue does not betray me before then.
But what was I saying? Oh, yes…
I am old, and growing old means that I have watched my friends die, and the foremost of them was my
socio
, Guilhabert de Castres. Oh…I miss him like I would miss a leg or an arm! I can still see him so vividly: short, squat with small hands and feet, a rounded face that wrinkles when he smiles, close, sharp eyes that see only the goodness in everything, and a jaw that juts out as if it were made of steel, a signal of his strong will. In fact his will was so determined that he never tired. Even in his later years when we travelled all over Languedoc on our nocturnal rides to secret meetings, or on journeys from one village to another, he walked always with a certain rhythm, his back as straight as a rod and his head pointing the way.
In those days
I was tall and muscular and yet, I was always amazed to see him climb the steep and arduous path to the pog, our mountain of Montségur, with ease, smiling and joyful to arrive at the top while I puffed and grumbled with every step and trailed behind him, red faced and fatigued.
As
I descend this same path now, keeping my mortal appointment with God, I think how fitting it is that Guilhabert has missed this end of ends! When I think of it tears fall from my eyes. They are falling now and I wipe them with a hand as I pause to look up. The sky is yet dark and I am looking for the sign. It should come from the summit of Bidorta if all goes well. Ah! I feel a pang in my heart to think on the alternative, but the bee, that little creature which has been buzzing around me for some days, has come again to cheer my spirit. The little sun being leads the way that descends and winds over these frost-covered stones. It reminds me of my promise and helps me to sow into my soul the happenings of those days and to weave everything into a song.
Those
who walk with me have their own songs to sing, their own memories to store away: songs of children and husbands and lovers and life. I sing to remember the Gospel and my song begins on the night Guilhabert died.
The
week we were due to return to the fortress of Montségur, Guilhabert fell sick with a fever. I had some knowledge of herbs and berries and roots and tried to affect a cure, but, alas, I was not successful. For three days Guilhabert lay on his death pallet covered in a sweat. I sat by him, dozing now and again, waking up to wipe his brow or to pull more blankets over his shivering form, while outside our cave the wind whistled and moaned its dire omens. On the fourth night Guilhabert seemed better and I told him that if the worst should happen I would suffer the Endura (the sacred fast of our faith) in order to follow him into death, desire-less and full of joy. But Guilhabert was not pleased by this and gathered what strength he had to reprimand me, ‘What madness you speak, boy!’ He looked very hard at me with those clouded eyes stabbing at my soul. ‘Come closer and listen to me…stop thinking about the Endura, you have something yet to do…I know this because I have seen the future and I am returned from it to tell you something of great importance.’
Out of r
espect for his venerable person I tried not to betray my disbelief. ‘When did you see the future, master?’ I asked.
‘When I was gone, w
hen I thought I was finally finished with this carcass! Come closer…why do you sit so far? I lose my breath! That’s it! Lean in so that I can whisper. I will talk plainly…I am dying and dying men must speak plain…’ He waved an impatient hand to forestall any words of hope. ‘Come now! There is no time to skirt around the truth!’ He gestured for me to sit him up and I did so, holding him in my arms as he spoke, his voice so low I had to bend my ear close to hear it.
‘
Firstly, we have been together…what?’ he rolled his eyes into his head, calculating. ‘Twenty years? Yes, twenty years! And in all that time you have served me well and I have never knowingly hurt you, I hope. But I must ask you now for your forgiveness, ahead of time, for what I am about to ask.’
I could not imagine why he should ask
me for forgiveness and I told him so, but this occasioned a tempest of annoyance.
‘
You were always a querulous one, Bertrand! Always wanting explanations! Well then, I will tell you why. What I am about to ask will lead you into peril! It will cause you much heartache, there is no getting away from it. And though it is God’s will, I ask your forgiveness for it…since I do not wish to leave this carcass with a bad conscience.’
This was more a command than a request
, and yet I would have forgiven him anything. I told him this and he said,
‘
That is good…that is good. Oh, Bertrand, just an ordinary man you look to others but not to me. To me there is more about you than appears on the surface of that face. That is why you were chosen, you see? And why I must now ask this next thing of you! Listen…when I die, you must go to Montségur as we planned. When you get there look in the library until you find the Apocalypse of John…look for chapter twelve, where John speaks of the woman with the moon at her feet, the sun in her belly and the stars crowning her head. That is what you must do…after that let the light of wisdom guide you to love, like a bee is guided to a rose. For only love will open your eyes and when it does, God-willing, you will know who you are and what you have to remember…that is the important thing – you must remember!’ His old eyes grew wide. ‘Tell me you will do it, dear Bertrand, tell me so that I can die in peace! Come, quickly!’
I
n that moment between question and answer, I hastily considered two things: I had seen how a fever could stupefy the mind of a sick man and cause him to speak nonsense, in which case I would be promising to do something that had no sure footing in truth; but, on the other hand, some men returned from the portals of death with a species of knowledge, and to fail to heed them was known to be a sin. As I looked into those loosening eyes, trying to decide which of the two seemed more likely, I realised that it did not matter one way or the other as the promise seemed of so great an importance to Guilhabert that my failure to agree might cause him to die of grief.
I made
a nod and he sank back into my arms, calmer now. His eyes grew distant. ‘There, there Bertrand, dear boy…don’t be sad. There is a moment between sleeping and waking, between dying and living, when there is no sadness…it is a moment of becoming…I am sore-glad to return to it…’
I
smiled a weak smile and he matched it.
‘
You do not understand, Bertrand, I know. How could you?’ he said. ‘Soon…soon.’
He
turned his head slightly and his body shuddered and, like that, he gave up the ghost, dying in my arms.
I
sing now how I mourned my friend, how my heart ached when I buried him and how lost I felt when I packed my meagre belongings and set off with my little mule for Montségur, alone now for the first time in twenty years.
Along the way
, as I dissolved into melancholy, my mind returned, over and over again, to the promise I had made, but the more I thought on it the less I understood it. I was to go to the mountain to look for John’s Apocalypse in which I would find the part that speaks of the woman crowned with stars, with the sun in her belly and the moon at her feet. I would then let the light of wisdom guide me like a bee seeking a rose, and somehow my eyes would open thereby to who I was, and to what I had to remember – whatever it was!
Oh my.
That was four years ago, and since then I have lived in a rough lean-to constructed of wood, located on the outer walls of the fortress of Montségur.
In many ways
these intervening years have been fruitful. I was made a bishop in my own right and was given many responsibilities to attend to, which demanded that I visit nearby villages in order to see to the spiritual wellbeing of the perfects that lived there. I had to see to all the celebrations of the rituals of our faith in the fortress and also to keep an eye on the instruction of the many children that were brought here by believers. In all my doings I tried to resemble a bee that seeks here and there for its rose.
One year passed
, then another, with so little harassment from the inquisition that even I began to grow a hope that the war was over, that soon we would see the shimmering light of the heavenly Jerusalem descending upon us. But that was before spring came and those feelings of foreboding washed over me as I stood upon the edge of the pog, looking out at the great expanses. But I would not understand my presentiments until Ascension Day, for that was the day that Pierre Roger of Mirepoix, one of the
seigneurs
of Montségur, arrived at the fortress looking pleased with himself.
F
lushed with excitement, and light in his step, he came directly to my hut to tell me of the great news. It seemed that he and his men had carried out a task on behalf of the Count of Toulouse, a task so grand that the people would celebrate it for a long time to come. But when he told me what it was I was fell into numbness. They had crushed in the skulls of several inquisitors at Avignonet and had stolen all their inquisitorial records!
‘I
would have drunk the wine from those skulls,’ Roger boasted. ‘Had they not been smashed to pieces!’
Oh
, I was very fearful for the people of our faith! Not only for those who lived here at the pog but also for those on the outside who would bear the coming wrath of the Catholics and their Pope. Gone was the heavenly Jerusalem and come again was a vision of the beast rising up out of the waters.
I told him I could not sanction his bloody actions.
‘One should suffer for one’s beliefs, Pierre, not kill for them!’ I reminded him.
But he did not listen.
He waved a hand at me and said, ‘That is why I am no perfect,
pairé
, but as imperfect as any man might be, so that I can do the bloody deeds that are necessary! Besides, the young count has promised to come to our aid with the help of Aragon, and soon we will take back our
paratge
...Think on it,
pairé
! How free were our people before these troubles!’
Yes, our
paratg
e! Our way of life, our right to worship and live as we pleased! I did not share his hopefulness. I had seen the ire of the Roman Church before, and the pyres that had blackened the skies for near forty years. I also knew the temper of our vacillating Count of Toulouse who, like his father before him, could not decide which side to take. And so that evening, when there was great rejoicing in the fortress, food and wine and merry-making, I was alone with my prayers in the room at the top of the keep.
But the merriment did not last, for soon a
shiver ran through the spine of the mountains warning of the gathering up of the French army and not long after that, the army itself arrived: ten thousand men singing Crusading songs were pitching their tents and bivouacs, and assembling their catapults and mangonels on the
Col du Tremblement
below us.
That
, you see, was the beginning of the siege of Montségur, of which you may know something in your time, and the end of our
paratge
.
The
protracted siege continued, through the summer and the dry season, but we southern people have grown used to hardship and so we managed to survive cooped up in our small fortress. Each day when I walked about the inner court it seemed to me that it was more and more crowded with knights and noble ladies and men at arms. Three hundred were now living on this little patch of rock blown by the wind and battered by rain. Many had come by way of the secret eastern path to offer their skills to the garrison or to help defend their friends and if necessary, to die with them. I wondered how long our food would last and more than once mentioned it to Pierre Roger. He took it lightly and said that it would soon be over, for the French were weak and not used to discomfort. They would not countenance one of our winters, frozen to the bone under flea-ridden blankets!
Even so,
whenever I went to the ramparts to take a look at the encampment below, it seemed to me grown with more soldiers and tents and siege engines. No, I told myself, the French had not come for a season. They had come for as long as it would take to bring down this fortress, the last bastion of our faith, a faith that the Roman Church had declared heretical.