Anderson shot a quick glance at Sato, clearly expecting a reprimand, but Director Sato seemed uninterested. Anderson moved away from Langdon and Sato, speaking quietly into his radio.
Sato’s unwavering focus remained on Langdon. “You’re saying the secret he believes is hidden in Washington . . . is a
fantasy
?”
Langdon nodded. “A very old myth. The secret of the Ancient Mysteries is pre-Christian, actually. Thousands of years old.”
“And yet it’s
still
around?”
“As are many equally improbable beliefs.” Langdon often reminded his students that most modern religions included stories that did not hold up to scientific scrutiny: everything from Moses parting the Red Sea . . . to Joseph Smith using magic eyeglasses to translate the Book of Mormon from a series of gold plates he found buried in upstate New York.
Wide acceptance of an idea is not proof of its validity.
“I see. So what exactly
are
these . . . Ancient Mysteries?”
Langdon exhaled.
Have you got a few weeks?
“In short, the Ancient Mysteries refer to a body of secret knowledge that was amassed long ago. One intriguing aspect of this knowledge is that it allegedly enables its practitioners to access powerful abilities that lie dormant in the human mind. The enlightened Adepts who possessed this knowledge vowed to keep it veiled from the masses because it was considered far too potent and dangerous for the uninitiated.”
“Dangerous in what way?”
“The information was kept hidden for the same reason we keep matches from children. In the correct hands, fire can provide illumination . . . but in the wrong hands, fire can be highly destructive.”
Sato took off her glasses and studied him. “Tell me, Professor, do you believe such powerful information could truly exist?”
Langdon was not sure how to respond. The Ancient Mysteries had always been the greatest paradox of his academic career. Virtually every mystical tradition on earth revolved around the idea that there existed arcane knowledge capable of imbuing humans with mystical, almost godlike, powers: tarot and
I Ching
gave men the ability to see the future; alchemy gave men immortality through the fabled Philosopher’s Stone; Wicca permitted advanced practitioners to cast powerful spells. The list went on and on.
As an academic, Langdon could not deny the historical record of these
traditions—troves of documents, artifacts, and artwork that, indeed, clearly suggested the ancients had a powerful wisdom that they shared only through allegory, myths, and symbols, ensuring that only those properly initiated could access its power. Nonetheless, as a realist and a skeptic, Langdon remained unconvinced.
“Let’s just say I’m a skeptic,” he told Sato. “I have never seen anything in the real world to suggest the Ancient Mysteries are anything other than legend—a recurring mythological archetype. It seems to me that if it were
possible
for humans to acquire miraculous powers, there would be evidence. And yet, so far, history has given us no men with superhuman powers.”
Sato arched her eyebrows. “That’s not entirely true.”
Langdon hesitated, realizing that for many religious people, there was indeed a precedent for human gods, Jesus being the most obvious. “Admittedly,” he said, “there are plenty of educated people who believe this empowering wisdom truly exists, but I’m not yet convinced.”
“Is Peter Solomon one of those people?” Sato asked, glancing toward the hand on the floor.
Langdon could not bring himself to look at the hand. “Peter comes from a family lineage that has always had a passion for all things ancient and mystical.”
“Was that a yes?” Sato asked.
“I can assure you that even if Peter believes the Ancient Mysteries are real, he does
not
believe they are accessible through some kind of portal hidden in Washington, D.C. He understands metaphorical symbolism, which is something his captor apparently does not.”
Sato nodded. “So you believe this portal is a
metaphor
.”
“Of course,” Langdon said. “In theory, anyway. It’s a very common metaphor—a mystical portal through which one must travel to become enlightened. Portals and doorways are common symbolic constructs that represent transformative rites of passage. To look for a
literal
portal would be like trying to locate the actual Gates of Heaven.”
Sato seemed to consider this momentarily. “But it sounds like Mr. Solomon’s captor believes you can unlock an
actual
portal.”
Langdon exhaled. “He’s made the same error many zealots make—confusing metaphor with a literal reality.” Similarly, early alchemists had toiled in vain to transform lead into gold, never realizing that lead-to-gold was nothing but a metaphor for tapping into true human potential—that of taking a dull, ignorant mind and transforming it into a bright, enlightened one.
Sato motioned to the hand. “If this man wants you to locate some kind of portal for him, why wouldn’t he simply
tell
you how to find it? Why all the dramatics? Why give you a tattooed hand?”
Langdon had asked himself the same question and the answer was unsettling. “Well, it seems the man we are dealing with, in addition to being mentally unstable, is also highly educated. This hand is proof that he is well versed in the Mysteries as well as their codes of secrecy. Not to mention with the history of this room.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Everything he has done tonight was done in perfect accordance with ancient protocols. Traditionally, the Hand of the Mysteries is a sacred invitation, and therefore it must be presented in a sacred place.”
Sato’s eyes narrowed. “This is the Rotunda of the U.S. Capitol Building, Professor, not some sacred shrine to ancient mystical secrets.”
“Actually, ma’am,” Langdon said, “I know a great number of historians who would disagree with you.”
At that moment, across town, Trish Dunne was seated in the glow of the plasma wall inside the Cube. She finished preparing her search spider and typed in the five key phrases Katherine had given her.
Here goes nothing.
Feeling little optimism, she launched the spider, effectively commencing a worldwide game of Go Fish. At blinding speed, the phrases were now being compared to texts all over the world . . . looking for a perfect match.
Trish couldn’t help but wonder what this was all about, but she had come to accept that working with the Solomons meant never quite knowing the entire story.
CHAPTER
20
Robert Langdon
stole an anxious glance at his wristwatch: 7:58 P.M. The smiling face of Mickey Mouse did little to cheer him up.
I’ve got to find Peter. We’re wasting time.
Sato had stepped aside for a moment to take a phone call, but now she returned to Langdon. “Professor, am I keeping you from something?”
“No, ma’am,” Langdon said, pulling his sleeve down over his watch. “I’m just extremely concerned about Peter.”
“I can understand, but I assure you the best thing you can do to help Peter is to help me understand the mind-set of his captor.”
Langdon was not so sure, but he sensed he was not going anywhere until the OS director got the information she desired.
“A moment ago,” Sato said, “you suggested this Rotunda is somehow
sacred
to the idea of these Ancient Mysteries?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Explain that to me.”
Langdon knew he would have to choose his words sparingly. He had taught for entire semesters on the mystical symbolism of Washington, D.C., and there was an almost inexhaustible list of mystical references in this building alone.
America has a hidden past.
Every time Langdon lectured on the symbology of America, his students were confounded to learn that the
true
intentions of our nation’s forefathers had absolutely nothing to do with what so many politicians now claimed.
America’s intended destiny has been lost to history.
The forefathers who founded this capital city first named her “Rome.” They had named her river the Tiber and erected a classical capital of pantheons and temples, all adorned with images of history’s great gods and goddesses—Apollo, Minerva, Venus, Helios, Vulcan, Jupiter. In her center, as in many of the great classical cities, the founders had erected an enduring tribute to the ancients—the Egyptian obelisk. This obelisk, larger even
than Cairo’s or Alexandria’s, rose 555 feet into the sky, more than thirty stories, proclaiming thanks and honor to the demigod forefather for whom this capital city took its newer name.
Washington.
Now, centuries later, despite America’s separation of church and state, this state-sponsored Rotunda glistened with ancient religious symbolism. There were over a dozen different gods in the Rotunda—more than the original Pantheon in Rome. Of course, the Roman Pantheon had been converted to Christianity in 609 . . . but
this
pantheon was never converted; vestiges of its true history still remained in plain view.
“As you may know,” Langdon said, “this Rotunda was designed as a tribute to one of Rome’s most venerated mystical shrines. The Temple of Vesta.”
“As in the vestal virgins?” Sato looked doubtful that Rome’s virginal guardians of the flame had anything to do with the U.S. Capitol Building.
“The Temple of Vesta in Rome,” Langdon said, “was circular, with a gaping hole in the floor, through which the sacred fire of enlightenment could be tended by a sisterhood of virgins whose job it was to ensure the flame never went out.”
Sato shrugged. “This Rotunda is a circle, but I see no gaping hole in this floor.”
“No, not anymore, but for years the center of this room had a large opening precisely where Peter’s hand is now.” Langdon motioned to the floor. “In fact, you can still see the marks in the floor from the railing that kept people from falling in.”
“What?” Sato demanded, scrutinizing the floor. “I’ve never heard that.”
“Looks like he’s right.” Anderson pointed out the circle of iron nubs where the posts had once been. “I’ve seen these before, but I never had any idea why they were there.”
You’re not alone,
Langdon thought, imagining the thousands of people every day, including famous lawmakers, who strode across the center of the Rotunda having no idea there was once a day when they would have plunged down into the Capitol Crypt—the level beneath the Rotunda floor.
“The hole in the floor,” Langdon told them, “was eventually covered, but for a good while, those who visited the Rotunda could see straight down to the fire that burned below.”
Sato turned. “Fire? In the U.S. Capitol?”
“More of a large torch, actually—an eternal flame that burned in the crypt directly beneath us. It was supposed to be visible through the hole
in the floor, making this room a modern Temple of Vesta. This building even had its own vestal virgin—a federal employee called the Keeper of the Crypt—who successfully kept the flame burning for fifty years, until politics, religion, and smoke damage snuffed out the idea.”
Both Anderson and Sato looked surprised.
Nowadays, the only reminder that a flame once burned here was the four-pointed star compass embedded in the crypt floor one story below them—a symbol of America’s eternal flame, which once shed illumination toward the four corners of the New World.
“So, Professor,” Sato said, “your contention is that the man who left Peter’s hand here
knew
all this?”
“Clearly. And much, much more. There are symbols all over this room that reflect a belief in the Ancient Mysteries.”
“Secret wisdom,” Sato said with more than a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “Knowledge that lets men acquire godlike powers?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That hardly fits with the Christian underpinnings of this country.”
“So it would seem, but it’s true. This transformation of man into God is called
apotheosis.
Whether or not you’re aware of it, this theme—transforming man into god—is the core element in this Rotunda’s symbolism.”
“Apotheosis?” Anderson spun with a startled look of recognition.
“Yes.”
Anderson works here. He knows.
“The word
apotheosis
literally means ‘divine transformation’—that of man becoming God. It’s from the ancient Greek:
apo
—‘to become,’
theos
—‘god.’ ”
Anderson looked amazed. “
Apotheosis
means ‘to become God’? I had no idea.”
“What am I missing?” Sato demanded.
“Ma’am,” Langdon said, “the largest painting in this building is called
The Apotheosis of Washington.
And it clearly depicts George Washington being
transformed
into a god.”
Sato looked doubtful. “I’ve never seen anything of the sort.”
“Actually, I’m sure you
have
.” Langdon raised his index finger, pointing straight up. “It’s directly over your head.”
CHAPTER
21
The Apotheosis
of Washington
—a 4,664-square-foot fresco that covers the canopy of the Capitol Rotunda—was completed in 1865 by Constantino Brumidi.
Known as “The Michelangelo of the Capitol,” Brumidi had laid claim to the Capitol Rotunda in the same way Michelangelo had laid claim to the Sistine Chapel, by painting a fresco on the room’s most lofty canvas—the ceiling. Like Michelangelo, Brumidi had done some of his finest work inside the Vatican. Brumidi, however, immigrated to America in 1852, abandoning God’s largest shrine in favor of a new shrine, the U.S. Capitol, which now glistened with examples of his mastery—from the trompe l’oeil of the Brumidi Corridors to the frieze ceiling of the Vice President’s Room. And yet it was the enormous image hovering above the Capitol Rotunda that most historians considered to be Brumidi’s masterwork.
