“Oh, really?” It was clear she was beginning to loosen up. “Well, compared to this, last night was—what did you always call it?” Pearse had no idea what she was talking about. “Minor-level? Minor—”
“Minor-league.” He smiled.
She nodded. “Yes. Minor-league. Last night, we were playing in the ‘bonies.’”
“Boonies,” he said, correcting her.
“Boonies. Whatever.”
“So what makes these letters so interesting?”
Again, she drew forward to the edge of the chair. “Each one is an apparent description of the writer’s personal ‘heavenly ascent.’”
“His what?”
“His tour of the divine realm, his ascent, where he’s made privy to esoteric knowledge. All very Manichaean. Except that each one of these is written as if from the pen of one of the five prophets. Now, that’s very strange.”
Happy as he was to see Angeli back in full swing, Pearse needed clarification. “Prophets? I’m not … Which prophets?”
“Adam, Seth, Enosh, Shem, and Enoch,” she answered, as if citing nothing more obscure than her own name. “The Manichaean prophets.” It was now time for the cigarettes to reappear. “You’ll also find Noah, Buddha, Zoroaster, and, of course, Jesus slotted into the list, but it’s primarily the other five. Each appearing in cycles, and each bringing us one step closer to redemption.” She lit one up. “Mani himself is the last of them, the Paraclete, ‘the seal’ promised by Christ.”
“Right,” he said, just to slow her down. “Why don’t you take a few puffs.” She was beginning to fly off; he needed to tie her down to something more tangible. “Let’s hold off on the prophets for a minute. What do the letters actually say?”
Looking over at him, she, too, realized she was getting ahead of herself. She nodded. “They begin with the basics. Foretelling the end of the world, when all evil will be burned in a final fire, light set free, full knowledge attained—that sort of thing.”
Slowly, he said, “Okay. So that would be … typical apocalyptic warnings. The light of Christ rooting out evil. Right?”
“Oh, it’s not the light of Christ. That isn’t it at all. That wouldn’t make it Manichaean.”
“No, of course it wouldn’t.” So much for the tangible.
“They’re an easy bunch to get muddled with.”
“Remember, I’m easily muddled.”
“I’ll try to dumb it down.”
“Very kind.”
She crushed out the cigarette and settled back into the chair. Waiting until she’d found the right approach, she began: “All right. You have to remember that the battle between light and darkness isn’t a metaphor for them. It’s real, manifested in the very way they chanted their prayers, the way they performed their rituals, even in the way they chose their foods. Unlike your basic Christians, or even Gnostics, the Manichaeans
believed that light and darkness were substances scattered within the material world. For instance, they actually thought that melons and cucumbers held a great deal of light, meats and wine the dark elements. Eat a melon, promote good. Eat a chicken, foment evil.”
“And that was what Mani developed out of Gnosticism? Evil foods?”
“It’s not as silly as it sounds. How much sillier is the idea of separating spirit and matter—spirit good, matter evil? The Greeks got a great deal of mileage out of that one. And it’s not as if Mani didn’t find the material world as abhorrent as the orthodox Christians did; it’s just that he managed to make it an essential part of salvation.”
“Right, right.” Pearse slowly remembered his brief foray into the world of “Light and Darkness.” “And that’s why Augustine and the church were so uneasy.”
“Exactly. More than that, because Mani believed human beings are fashioned by demonic forces—bent on keeping the light trapped for eternity—he also thought that men had to play an active role in their own salvation: find those things that help to free the light, avoid those that don’t. Melons versus meat. Augustine had said the will was free only when choosing God. With Mani, you’ve got something that grants a sort of cosmic feeling of responsibility to the individual, because he might be a bearer of the light. Catholicism never gave its faithful that kind of autonomy.”
“Thanks for reminding me.”
“I told you you weren’t going to like it.”
“I might surprise you.”
“Anyway, a prophet’s ‘heavenly ascent’ was simply the highest form of that responsibility, all of it geared to bringing the gnosis back to his followers and thus freeing sufficient light so that the last of the prophets—Mani himself—could return and bring about the final purification of the world.”
“And that’s what the epistles are all about.”
“No.”
“No,” Pearse repeated. “Great.” He was doing his best not to get frustrated. “So these ‘heavenly ascents’—”
“Are where the epistles
begin
. Yes. What you might call Manichaeanism at its most attractive.”
“I see.” He had no idea what she was talking about, but he decided to press on anyway. “But it’s not where they end.”
“No.”
Again, he had to hold back his frustration. “So where
do
they end?”
“With the
not
so attractive.” She shifted in her chair.
“Meaning?”
“Well …” Again, she hesitated. “You have to remember that Mani’s followers thought that theirs was the one true and holy Christian church.”
“As did every other renegade sect at the time,” he countered. “What’s so unattractive?”
“Yes, but the Manichaeans were after a kind of hyperasceticism. They professed to be purer than the other churches, their scriptures more comprehensive and unambiguous, their methods of describing the world through their knowledge more quasi-scientific—something very appealing at the time—and their preparation for the return of the Messiah more complete.” She began to sift through a pile of books, picking out one as she spoke. “That preparation, though, demanded that there be only one church standing when the Messiah returned.” She scanned the pages, talking offhandedly. “All others had to be rooted out, or at least subsumed within the Manichaean system. Evangelicalism taken to its extreme. Even the Romans thought of them as some sort of ‘superior Christians,’ more pious, more devout than the rest.”
“So the Persian dualism had unity as its goal? That doesn’t sound right.”
She nodded. “It’s known as ‘the Manichaean paradox.’ Light and darkness waging war, but only to a point. The ultimate aim: one pure church in a world beset by darkness.” She found the page she had been looking for. “Here it is. This is the catchphrase they used to summarize the whole theology: ‘of the two principles and the three moments.’ The two principles are, of course, light and darkness. The three moments are the beginning, the middle, and the end.”
“That’s innovative.”
She continued, ignoring the comment. “In the beginning, light and darkness are separate; in the middle, they’re mingled—that’s where we are now, in that middle moment; and at the end, they resolve themselves in an eternal triumph of life and light over death. It’s really quite simple.”
Pearse did his best to nod. “Simple. I’m still not sure what makes that so ‘unattractive.’ It’s not all that different from what the Catholic church was trying to do at the same time. You called it ‘a unified front.’”
“Yes,” she said, retrieving the cigarette, “but the Manichaeans were also seen as zealots, far too willing to brand those incapable of attaining the gnosis—that is, the vast majority—as threats to salvation. Only
gnosis
granted freedom; those without it, they felt, had to be controlled, maybe even manipulated. A sort of tough love. It was their methods for achieving that control that were unattractive and thought of as somewhat … suspect.”
“Melons were actually evil?” he said.
“Very funny. No. Certain early Christian writers suggested—albeit in completely unsubstantiated ways—that the Manichaeans had more in mind for the material world than simply its purification. Or at least that their methods weren’t as noble as they preached. Most scholars today reject those claims as another clever way the Catholic church managed to turn a rival group into pariahs.”
“Right, right. Not only were their teachings heretical but they were deceivers and manipulators, as well. That part, I know. The church was very good at that for a while.”
“Precisely.” Smoke streamed from the cigarette. “And, from time to time, dating back as far as the third and fourth centuries, there’s been speculation that they were … infiltrators—for want of a better word.”
“Infiltrators?” His eyebrows lifted as he smiled over at her. “That sounds pretty racy. Into what?”
“I’m not sure I’d use the word
racy
, but”—she took a long drag—“
infiltrators
into other churches, where they would rise to positions of power, and then take those congregations in very specific directions. A sort of cancer within the Catholic hierarchy. Bolsheviks of the fourth century, if you will. And all in the hope of creating their one, pure church. There is, of course, no proof for any of that.”
“Of course.” His smile grew. “It still sounds pretty racy … Bolsheviks, infiltrators. In a purely academic way, of course.”
“Yes. Very … racy.” For all her playing, Angeli clearly had her limits. Still, Pearse was enjoying pressing at them. “Anyway,” she said, “most of us believe that the Catholic church eventually became too powerful and well entrenched, and no amount of covert manipulation could have changed that.”
“You make the Manichaeans sound like some sort of secret society.”
“Oh, they
were
that,” she insisted. “There, I can show you plenty of proof.” She smiled up at him. “Very racy proof. Any number of documents describe how they developed a network of cells—à la the French Resistance—within the Roman Empire both to spread their own interpretation of the Word and also to avoid detection. Most scholars claim
that the sect wanted to avoid detection by the
Romans
. As I said, though, there have been those who’ve suggested that the Manichaeans might have wanted to avoid detection by other
Christians
, as well.” Angeli creased her lips around the cigarette and inhaled deeply. “And given what your scroll contains, I’m now somewhat inclined to agree with them.”
Pearse knew there was more to her admission than merely an academic’s reassessment. His encounter with the Austrian had been proof enough of that. The question remained: What? “So fifteen letters, describing some kind of transcendent experience, will change the way we view the Manichaeans? I can’t see how that would be earth-shattering for more than a handful of people.”
“Then you would be wrong.” Nothing hostile in her tone, simply a statement of fact. Without waiting for a response, she bent over and began to lay the pages on the carpet, one by one. Whenever she needed more room, she would push the encroaching pile of books as far as her short arms would allow, eventually forced to drop to her knees so as to gain added leverage. Every so often, a few books would topple; she continued, undeterred, until the area from desk to Pearse lay hidden under a blanket of yellow paper. “Remember, it was a prayer passed down
orally
,” she said at last, still fiddling with the order of the sheets. “Somehow, I forgot that little piece of information for nearly an hour. Stupid, stupid, stupid.”
Pearse gazed out over the sea of yellow, the scrawl only slightly less daunting than the wild arrows that ran from one sheet to the next, exclamation points circled in red ink, whole paragraphs written vertically in the margins, the letters almost too small to make out. He watched as she twisted her head once or twice so as to follow the mean-derings of several of the linked pages, the red pen emerging from one of her pockets to solidify the routing. When she was fully satisfied, she pulled herself up to the chair and sat.
“So, what do you think they are?” There was almost a giddiness in her tone.
Pearse looked across the pages. After almost a minute, he shook his head and turned to her.
“Oh, come on. You were wonderful on this stuff. Remember those bits from Porphyrius Optatianus, the poet-courtier of Constantine? All that wordplay? You were the one who figured those out, not me.” She nodded again at the pages. “So come on. What do you think they are? It’s right there in front of you.”
The gauntlet had been thrown. Pearse moved to the edge of his seat and again began to scan the yellow sheets. Another long minute.
“Transposition of lines?” he said. Fatigue, lack of practice—either way, he knew it was a weak attempt, but he had to go with something.
“Too obvious.”
“Thank you.” He looked again. “Reverse sequencing?”
“Before the twelfth century? Oh, come on. You’re not even trying.”
He couldn’t help but smile. “I promise. I’m trying.”
“Think Hebrew scripture.”
“Okay. It’s … actually a pillar of salt.”
“Ha-ha. I’m telling you, you’re going to hate yourself.” When he shook his head again, she conceded, “Oh, all right. It’s a series of
acrostics
.” She looked out at her handiwork. “Such a common device in prayers, and
Hebrew
literature is full of them. Took me an age to get that that’s what they were doing here, but I thought you’d … well, anyway. They’re acrostics.”
He saw it at once. Following each of the lines, he confirmed it for himself. “The first letters of each line placed together spell out something else.”
“And these are ingenious. Those pages there,” she continued, pointing to the sheets closest to Pearse, “are the fifteen transcriptions of the prayer. Notice anything strange about them?”
He inched out farther on his chair. This time, he saw it immediately. “The lengths of the lines are all different,” he answered.
“Exactly. Given that they’re all the same prayer, you’d expect them to be identical, or at least close enough, perhaps a few words altered here and there. But in each one of these, the lines begin and end at entirely different points, while the individual words remain identical. Why?” He could tell she was enjoying this.
“The oral tradition,” he nodded.
“Exactly. I knew you’d get it. There wouldn’t necessarily have
been
established designations of lines and stanzas, because they would have recited it as a continuous flow of words—with a few pauses here and there—but with nothing absolutely fixed. An obvious explanation for the discrepancies. But was it?”