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  The Cathars were also dualists. All Christian thought, of course, can ultimately be seen as dualistic, insisting on a conflict between two opposing principles—good and evil, spirit and flesh, higher and lower. But the Cathars carried this dichotomy much further than orthodox Catholicism was prepared to. For the Cathars men were the swords that spirits fought with, and no one saw the hands. For the Cathars a perpetual war was being waged throughout the whole of creation between two irreconcilable principles—light and darkness, spirit and matter, good and evil. Catholicism posits one supreme God, whose adversary, the Devil, is ultimately inferior to Him. The Cathars, however, proclaimed the existence not of one god, but of two with more or less comparable status. One of these gods—the "good" one—was entirely disincarnate, a being or principle of pure spirit, unsullied by the taint of matter. He was the god of love. But love was deemed wholly incompatible with power; and material creation was a manifestation of power. Therefore, for the Cathars, material creation—the world itself—was intrinsically evil, All matter was intrinsically evil. The universe, in short, was the handiwork of a "usurper god," the god of evil—or, as the Cathars called him, "Rex Mundi," "King of the World."

  Catholicism rests on what might be called an ethical dualism. Evil, though issuing ultimately perhaps from the Devil, manifests itself primarily through a man and his actions. In contrast, the Cathars maintained a form of "cosmological dualism," a dualism that pervaded the whole of reality. For the Cathars this was a basic premise, but their response to it varied from sect to sect. According to some Cathars the purpose of man’s life on earth was to transcend matter, to renounce perpetually anything connected with the principle of power, and thereby to attain union with the principle of love. According to other Cathars man’s purpose was to reclaim and redeem matter, to spiritualize and transform it. It is important to note the absence of any fixed dogma, doctrine, or theology. As in most deviations from established orthodoxy, there are only certain loosely defined attitudes, and the moral obligations attendant on these attitudes were subject to individual interpretation.

  In the eyes of the Roman Church the Cathars were committing serious heresies in regarding material creation, on behalf of which Jesus had supposedly died, as intrinsically evil and implying that God, whose "Word" had created the world "in the beginning," was a usurper. Their most serious heresy, however, was their attitude toward Jesus himself. Since matter was intrinsically evil, the Cathars denied that Jesus could partake of matter, become incarnate in the flesh, and still be the Son of God. By some Cathars he was therefore deemed to be wholly incorporeal, a "phantasm," an entity of pure spirit, which, of course, could not possibly be crucified. The majority of Cathars seem to have regarded him as a prophet no different from any other—a mortal being who, on behalf of the principle of love, died on the cross. There was, in short, nothing mystical, nothing supernatural, nothing divine about the Crucifixion— if, indeed, it was relevant at all, which many Cathars appear to have doubted.

  In any case, all Cathars vehemently repudiated the significance of both the Crucifixion and the cross—perhaps because they felt these doctrines were irrelevant, or because Rome extolled them so fervently, or because the brutal circumstances of a prophet’s death did not seem worthy of worship. And the cross—at least in association with Calvary and the Crucifixion—was regarded as an emblem of Rex Mundi, lord of the material world, the very antithesis of the true redemptive principle. Jesus, if mortal at all, had been a prophet of AMOR, the principle of love. And AMOR, when inverted or perverted or twisted into power, became ROMA—Rome, whose opulent, luxurious Church seemed to the Cathars a palpable embodiment and manifestation on earth of Rex Mundi’s sovereignty. In consequence the Cathars not only refused to worship the cross, they also denied such sacraments as Baptism and Communion.

  Despite these subtle, complex, abstract, and, to a modern mind, perhaps irrelevant theological positions, most Cathars were not unduly fanatical about their creed. It is intellectually fashionable nowadays to regard the Cathars as a congregation of sages, enlightened mystics, or initiates in arcane wisdom, all of whom were privy to some great cosmic secret. In actual fact, however, most Cathars were more or less "ordinary" men and women who found in their creed a refuge from the stringency of orthodox Catholicism—a respite from the endless tithes, penances, obsequies, strictures, and other impositions of the Roman Church.

  However abstruse their theology, the Cathars were eminently realistic people in practice. They condemned procreation, for exam- ple, since the propagation of the flesh was a service, not to the principle of love, but to Rex Mundi. Yet, they were not so naive as to advocate the abolition of sexuality. True, there was a specific Cathar "sacrament," or the equivalent thereof, called the Consolamentum, which compelled one to chastity. Except for the priests, or parfaits, who were usually ex-family men and women anyway, the Consolamentum was not administered until one was on one’s deathbed ; and it is not inordinately difficult to be chaste when one is dying. So far as the congregation at large was concerned, sexuality was tolerated, if not explicitly sanctioned. How does one condemn procreation while condoning sexuality? There is evidence to suggest that the Cathars practiced both birth control and abortion.2 When Rome subsequently charged the heretics with "unnatural sexual practices," this was taken to refer to sodomy. However, the Cathars, insofar as records survive, were extremely strict in their prohibition of homosexuality. "Unnatural sexual practices" may well have referred to various methods of birth control and abortion. We know Rome’s position on those issues today. It is not difficult to imagine the energy and vindictive zeal with which that position would have been enforced during the Middle Ages.

  Generally the Cathars seem to have adhered to a life of extreme devotion and simplicity. Deploring churches, they usually conducted their rituals and services in the open air or in any readily available building —a barn, a house, a municipal hall. They also practiced what we today would call meditation. They were strict vegetarians, although the eating of fish was allowed. And when traveling about the countryside, parfaits would always do so in pairs, thus lending credence to the rumors of sodomy sponsored by their enemies.

  THE SIEGE OF MONTSEGUR

  This, then, was the creed that swept the Languedoc and adjacent provinces on a scale that threatened to displace Catholicism itself. For a number of comprehensible reasons many nobles found the creed attractive. Some warmed to its general tolerance. Some were anticlerical anyway. Some were disillusioned with the Church’s corruption. Some had lost patience with the tithe system, whereby the income from their estates vanished into the distant coffers of Rome. Thus, many nobles in their old age became parfaits. Indeed, it is estimated that 30 percent of all parfaits were drawn from Languedoc nobility.

  In 1145, half a century before the Albigensian Crusade, Saint Bernard, at the time orthodox Christianity’s foremost spokesman, himself had journeyed to the Languedoc, intending to preach against the heretics. When he arrived, he was less appalled by the heretics than by the corruption of his own Church. So far as the heretics were concerned, Bernard was clearly impressed by them. "No sermons are more Christian than theirs," he declared, "and their morals are pure."3

  By 1200, needless to say, Rome had grown distinctly alarmed by the situation. Nor was she unaware of the envy with which the barons of northern Europe regarded the rich lands and cities to the south. This envy could readily be exploited, and the northern lords would constitute the Church’s storm troops. All that was needed was some provocation, some excuse to ignite popular opinion.

  Such an excuse was soon forthcoming. On January 14, 1208, one of the papal legates to the Languedoc, Pierre de Castelnau, was murdered. The crime seems to have been committed by anticlerical rebels with no Cathar affiliation whatever. Furnished with the excuse she needed, however, Rome did not hesitate to blame the Cathars. At once Pope Innocent III ordered a crusade. Although there had been intermittent persecution of heretics all through the previous century, the
Church now mobilized her forces in earnest. The heresy was to be extirpated once and for all.

  A massive army was mustered under the command of the abbot of Citeaux. Military operations were entrusted largely to Simon de Montfort—father of the man who was subsequently to play so crucial a role in English history. And under Simon’s leadership the Pope’s crusaders set out to reduce the highest European culture of the Middle Ages to destitution and rubble. In this holy undertaking they were aided by a new and useful ally, a Spanish fanatic named Dominic Guzmán. Spurred by a rabid hatred of heresy, Guzmán in 1216 created the monastic order subsequently named after him, the Dominicans. And in 1233 the Dominicans spawned a more infamous institution—the Holy Inquisition. The Cathars were not to be its sole victims. Before the Albigensian Crusade many Languedoc nobles— especially the influential houses of Trencavel and Toulouse—had been extremely friendly to the region’s large indigenous Jewish population. Now all such protection and support was withdrawn by order.

  In 1218 Simon de Montfort was killed besieging Toulouse. Nevertheless, the depredation of the Languedoc continued with only brief respites for another quarter of a century. By 1243, however, all organized resistance—insofar as there had ever been any—had effectively ceased. By 1243 all major Cathar towns and bastions had fallen to the northern invaders, except for a handful of remote and isolated strong points. Chief among these was the majestic mountain citadel of Montségur, poised like a celestial ark above the surrounding valleys.

  For ten months Montségur was besieged by the invaders, withstanding repeated assaults and maintaining tenacious resistance. At length, in March 1244, the fortress capitulated, and Catharism, at least ostensibly, ceased to exist in the south of France. But ideas can never be stamped out definitively. In his best-selling book, Montaillou, for example, Emmanuel Le Roy Ladurie, drawing extensively on documents of the period, chronicles the activities of surviving Cathars nearly half a century after the fall of Montségur. Small enclaves of heretics continued to survive in the mountains, living in caves, adhering to their creed, and waging a bitter guerrilla war against their persecutors. In many areas of the Languedoc—including the environs of Rennes-le-Château—the Cathar faith is generally acknowledged to have persisted. And many writers have traced subsequent European heresies to offshoots of Cathar thought—the Waldensians, for instance, the Hussites, the Adamites or Brethren of the Free Spirit, the Anabaptists, and the strange Camisards, numbers of whom found refuge in London during the early eighteenth century.

  THE CATHAR TREASURE

  During the Albigensian Crusade and afterward a mystique grew up around the Cathars that still persists today. In part this can be ascribed to the element of romance that surrounds any lost and tragic cause—that of Bonnie Prince Charlie, for example—with a magical luster, with a haunting nostalgia, with the "stuff of legend." But at the same time, we discovered, there were some very real mysteries associated with the Cathars. While the legends might be exalted and romanticized, a number of enigmas remained.

  One of these pertains to the origins of the Cathars, and although this at first seemed an academic point to us, it proved subsequently to be of considerable importance. Most recent historians have argued that the Cathars derived from the Bogomils, a sect active in Bulgaria during the tenth and eleventh centuries, whose missionaries migrated westward. There is no question that the heretics of the Languedoc included a number of Bogomils. Indeed, a known Bogomil preacher was prominent in the political and religious affairs of the time. And yet our research disclosed substantial evidence that the Cathars did not derive from the Bogomils. On the contrary, they seemed to represent the flowering of something already rooted in French soil for centuries. They seemed to have issued almost directly from heresies established and entrenched in France at the very advent of the Christian era.4

  There are other, considerably more intriguing mysteries associated with the Cathars. Jean de Joinville, for example, an old man writing of his acquaintance with Louis IX during the thirteenth century, writes, "The king [Louis IX] once told me how several men from among the Albigenses had gone to the Comte de Montfort ... and asked him to come and look at the body of Our Lord, which had become flesh and blood in the hands of their priest." 5 Montfort, according to the anecdote, seems somewhat taken aback by the invitation. Rather huffily he declares that his entourage may go if they wish, but he will continue to believe in accordance with the tenets of "Holy Church." There is no further elaboration or explanation of this incident. Joinville himself merely recounts it in passing. But what are we to make of that enigmatic invitation? What were the Cathars doing? What kind of ritual was involved? Leaving aside the Mass, which the Cathars repudiated anyway, what could possibly make "the body of Our Lord ... become flesh and blood"? Whatever it might be, there is certainly something disturbingly literal in the statement.

  Another mystery surrounds the legendary Cathar "treasure." It is known that the Cathars were extremely wealthy. Technically their creed forbade them to bear arms; and though many ignored this prohibition, the fact remains that large numbers of mercenaries were employed at considerable expense. At the same time the sources of Cathar wealth—the allegiance they commanded from powerful landowners, for instance—were obvious and explicable. Yet rumors arose, even during the course of the Albigensian Crusade, of a fantastic, mystical Cathar treasure, far beyond material wealth. Whatever it was, this treasure was reputedly kept at Montségur. When Montségur fell, however, nothing of consequence was found. And yet there are certain singular incidents connected with the siege and the capitulation of the fortress.

  During the siege the attackers numbered upward of ten thousand. With this vast force the besiegers attempted to surround the entire mountain, precluding all entry and exit and hoping to starve out the defenders. Despite their numerical strength, however, they lacked sufficient manpower to make their ring completely secure. Many troops were local, moreover, and sympathetic to the Cathars. And many troops were simply unreliable. In consequence it was not difficult to pass undetected through the attackers’ lines. There were many gaps through which men slipped to and fro, and supplies found their way up to the fortress.

  The Cathars took advantage of these gaps. In January 1244, nearly three months before the fall of the fortress, two parfaits escaped. According to reliable accounts, they carried with them the bulk of the Cathars’ material wealth—a load of gold, silver, and coin that they carried first to a fortified cave in the mountains and from there to a castle stronghold. After that the treasure vanished and has never been heard of again.

  On March 1 Montségur finally capitulated. By then its defenders numbered less than 400—between 150 and 180 of them were parfaits, the rest being knights, squires, men-at-arms, and their families. They were granted surprisingly lenient terms. The fighting men were to receive full pardon for all previous "crimes." They would be allowed to depart with their arms, baggage, and any gifts, including money, they might receive from their employers. The parfaits were also accorded unexpected generosity. Provided they abjured their heretical beliefs and confessed their "sins" to the Inquisition, they would be freed and subjected only to light penances.

  The defenders requested a two-week truce, a complete cessation of hostilities—to consider these terms. In a further display of uncharacteristic generosity, the attackers acceded. In return the defenders voluntarily offered hostages. It was agreed that if anyone attempted to escape from the fortress the hostages would be executed.

  Were the parfaits so committed to their beliefs that they willingly chose martyrdom instead of conversion? Or was there something they could not—or dared not—confess to the Inquisition? Whatever the answer, not one of the parfaits, as far as is known, accepted the besiegers’ terms. On the contrary, all of them chose martyrdom. Moreover, at least twenty of the other occupants of the fortress, six women and some fifteen fighting men, voluntarily received the Consolamentum and became parfaits as well, thus committing themselves to certain deat
h.

  On March 15 the truce expired. At dawn the following day more than two hundred parfaits were dragged roughly down the mountainside. Not one recanted. There was no time to erect individual stakes. They were locked into a large wood-filled stockade at the foot of the mountain and burned en masse. Confined to the castle, the remainder of the garrison was compelled to look on. They were warned that if any of them sought to escape it would mean death for all of them, as well as for the hostages.

  Despite this risk, however, the garrison had connived in hiding four parfaits among them. And on the night of March 16 these four men, accompanied by a guide, made a daring escape—again with the knowledge and collusion of the garrison. They descended the sheer western face of the mountain, suspended by ropes and letting themselves down drops of more than a hundred meters at a time.6

  What were these men doing? What was the purpose of their hazardous escape, which entailed such risk to both the garrison and the hostages? On the next day they could have walked freely out of the fortress, at liberty to resume their lives. Yet for some unknown reason they embarked on a perilous nocturnal escape that might easily have entailed death for themselves and their colleagues.

  According to tradition these four men carried with them the legendary Cathar treasure. But the Cathar treasure had been smuggled out of Montségur three months before. And how much "treasure," in any case—how much gold, silver, or coin—could so few men carry on their backs dangling from ropes on a sheer mountainside? If the four escapees were indeed carrying something, it would seem clear that they were carrying something other than material wealth.