thought of fat Jean Brissot. He thought how the Parisians would like to have that girl in their hands. He patted his horse’s neck and smiled. Bertrand Marchenoir would like her most of all; the rabble-roaring ex-priest who had led Paris into blood and more blood was famous for his dealings with the daughters of the fallen aristocracy, and there would be added pleasure for Marchenoir in the fact that this lovely creature was, on her mother’s side, one of the hated d’Auxignys. Gitan laughed at the thought.
The wind blew the rain cold from the west as man and horse rode through the brown, wet woods of an English autumn. He stopped in a clearing on the hill’s crest, turned in his saddle, and stared at the great house that was now beneath him. It was, he thought, a most beautiful house. It was also, though it did not yet know it, a house under siege. The Gypsy clicked his tongue and rode on.
‘What is your name?’
The answer came from a man who stood alone in the centre of a sunken, marble floor. The man was naked.
The room was brilliantly lit by a ring of candles, hundreds of flames reflected from polished marble, silver, and mirrors that threw the man’s shadow in a complex coronet radiating from his bare feet. The room was circular and, high above the naked man’s head, there was the gleam of gold mosaics that decorated the domed ceilings. It was a lavish room, fit for an Emperor or a great whore.
The questioner spoke again. He could not be seen and his voice came as a hoarse whisper that seemed to fill the room, coming from no direction and every direction. ‘What is your desire?’
‘To join you.’
‘What gives light?’
‘Reason.’
‘What gives darkness?’
‘God.’
‘How do you apprehend this?’
‘With reason.’
‘What is your name?’
The naked man answered again. His voice was strong in the room, echoing from the marble and from the magnificent gold mosaics of the dome.
Another voice, also a whisper, echoed mysteriously about the great chamber. ‘What protects the weak?’
‘The law.’
‘What is above the law?’
‘Reason.’
‘What is your name?’
The man answered. He stood quite still. He was a tall man and well muscled. He did not seem uncomfortable with his nakedness.
A third voice whispered. ‘What is death?’
‘Nothing.’
Silence.
Real silence. No windows opened to the outside world in this extraordinary place. The doors by which the naked man had entered were of bronze, doors so heavy that it had taken all his strength to close them on the night.
It was October outside. In this room it could be any season, any hour, any year.
One of the whispers sounded. ‘Kill him.’
Silence again.
The man expected this, yet he felt a crawling fear within him. He kept his face rigid. He was being judged.
‘Why did you come here?’
‘To serve you.’
‘Whom do we serve?’
‘Reason.’
‘What bounds does reason have?’
‘None.’
‘Kill him.’
‘Kill him.’
The third voice did not sound.
Europe was rife with secret societies, most imitating the Masons, all offering a man the secret pride of belonging to a privileged group. Some, like the Rosati, were harmless, devoted to poetry and wine. Others, like the Illuminati, had more sinister purposes. Yet this gathering, in this strange marble hall that was like a mausoleum awaiting its dead, was a secret society within a secret society. These were the Fallen Angels of the Illuminati.
The Illuminati had come from Germany where the princes and dukes had persecuted the movement and driven it south to France where, in the ferment of revolution, the ‘Illuminated Ones’ had found a home. It was said that more than half the leaders of the revolution belonged to the Illuminati, that the achievements of the revolution had been planned, not in political meetings, but in the secret halls of the society. It was rumoured that the Illuminati were spreading like an unseen stain throughout the civilized world.
They had been given the light of reason. They were above the law. They were the future. They would take the world from the dark splendours of superstition into the brilliance of a planet governed by the intellect. The society of the Illuminated Ones existed to establish a new religion that worshipped reason, and to forge a universal republic. France had lit the way; France had proved that the old monarchies and the old gods could be destroyed.
The naked man had been Illuminati for five years. Now he had been offered a greater honour. He could join the Fallen Angels.
The Fallen Angels were not the only secret group within the Illuminati. Each group, like this one, had a task to fulfil. Just as cavalry rode ahead of an army to spy out the land and confuse the enemy with short, sharp raids, so did the secret groups of the Illuminati prepare the way for the coming age of reason. The Fallen Angels planned one such raid now and the naked man, standing on the echoing marble, was needed for a specific task. First, though, he must pass this trial.
The naked man, if he failed this test, would die. Simply by coming to this place he had learned too much about the Fallen Angels. If he passed the test then he would be given a new name, the name of a fallen angel; one of those bright creatures who had rebelled against God, who had fought the war in heaven, and who had fallen with Satan into the bottomless pit of defeat. The Fallen Angels took the names of those who had dared to fight God as symbols of their own rebellion against religion, superstition, and government.
A whisper sounded again. ‘What is your name?’
He told them.
‘What do the Fallen have?’
‘Reason.’
‘Do they obey the law?’
‘They make the law.’
‘Do they obey the law?’ The whisper had a suggestion of irritation.
‘No.’
Silence. The candle flames were still and bright. A few, their wicks untrimmed, shivered
