The Voynich Cypher

CHAPTER 29

“You stole the Scroll?”

“Liberated. I liberated the Scroll, which no more belonged to the Order than it did to anyone else. But yes, it was me,” Natalie replied with a shrug.

Steven studied her with disbelief. What other surprises was she hiding?

“That’s how you know so much about it…”

“Yes. I helped my father once he’d been given Frank’s contact within the Order. I never talked to the man myself, but we got a lot of background information. The Scroll was written in 1450 or so. What nobody knows is that the entire Voynich was created as an elaborate shell around the hidden text in quire 18. But the secret predates the Voynich. After studying everything Frank provided him, my father believed that the Voynich was a copy of an original document, which he thought was written by Roger Bacon in the 1200s. As you know, Bacon is considered to be one of the fathers of the scientific method, but he was also a deeply devout friar who actually spent time at the Abbey. Small world.”

Natalie finished her second glass of wine and placed it on the coffee table. “Anyway, during Bacon’s reading of the many forbidden and ancient documents that came his way due to his reputation and network of contacts, he discovered a secret that was so sacrilegious that he not only feared for his own life, but also for the continued existence of his order. Back then the Church greeted most new information with death sentences and persecution.”

Steven nodded. “Maybe that’s why Bacon’s name is associated with the Voynich so often. At one point I came to the conclusion that he was the likeliest one who could have written it, in spite of the impossibility, given that he died a century before it was created. It’s always been a paradox, and it’s that niggling detail that caused me to discard the hypothesis,” Steven said. “But why create a copy?”

“The original was in terrible shape after being hidden by those loyal to Bacon for over a hundred years — medieval castles and abbeys weren’t the most hospitable places for manuscript storage, long term.”

“No, I’d imagine not, given the moisture, and rats, and everything else.”

“Exactly. Apparently, one acolyte devoted ten years of his life to creating the current document, from 1440 to 1450, so the secret wouldn’t be lost. According to Frank’s research, that monk was Christian Rosenkreuz, who later became legendary as the purported founder of the Rosicrucian Order — although in that group’s legend he’s a doctor rather than a monk and lived a hundred fifty years later,” Natalie explained.

“Rosenkreuz was a monk?”

“My father believed that one of the reasons the legend about him started was based in fact, although twisted by history and inventive followers — Rosenkreuz was rumored to know secrets of vast importance, forbidden knowledge, and that got twisted into the Rosicrucian legend after he died. If he was a follower of Bacon and knew the secret, then he would have indeed had forbidden understanding — only not the kind that later got associated with him,” Natalie said.

Steven considered this revelation — the saga had just gotten more interesting. He’d decrypted several documents from the seventeenth century that had been coded Rosicrucian communiqués.

Natalie scrunched closer to Steven. “In a way, Bacon did write the Voynich, but not with his own hand — at least, not this iteration, which is all that survives. The original was destroyed by Rosenkreuz once he was done and replaced by what is now the Voynich. Only there was a problem. Two, actually. The first was that he needed to preserve the mechanism for decoding it. In a medium that couldn’t be destroyed by time and couldn’t be discovered by those who weren’t part of the loyal few. That must be where the tablet and the parchment came in. He needed to send instructions to others of his brethren in England and Italy and France, on how to find the decryption tablet, but he couldn’t do it in a way that might be discovered,” Natalie continued.

The light went on in Steven’s head. “He sent encrypted documents to them with coded directions on where to find, not the tablet, but hidden instructions on how to find the tablet. Embedded in the middle basilica, which was not publicly known about at the time.” Steven finished his wine. “Only a member of the cloth — presumably one of his associates — could have ready access to the upper, new basilica and find the secret way to the middle level. Now that we know the parchment was there, my guess is the existence of the middle and lower levels were passed on as a verbal legacy. That ensured the secret was safe, with several hurdles in place to keep those not part of the conspiracy from ever discovering the secret. Back then, the Inquisition was in full swing, and even a hint would have gotten someone burned as a heretic,” Steven reasoned.

“That’s why you’ve probably seen the crest on other encrypted documents from the same period, which also contained instructions to the Basilica of Saint Clemente, or perhaps to some other site — it could be there’s a different location for each encoded parchment sent out. It doesn’t really matter and can never be known without decrypting those others. But for our purposes, we have the tablet, which in the end is the key. Without that, there’s no way to decrypt the Scroll,” Natalie finished.

“I wonder what Bacon could have come across that warranted such secrecy. I mean, it had to be big. During that period, knowledge that had been lost to the West for a thousand years was beginning to make its way into Europe via the writings of the ancient Greeks and Arabs — the study of which ultimately wound up driving the creation of the university system. It was a period of tremendous intellectual upheaval, and at the same time, one of excitement. All the knowledge of the centuries that had been forgotten in the West during the so-called Dark Ages was being rediscovered.”

“Our contact didn’t know what the Scroll contained,” Natalie added. “My father was always curious as to why the Order didn’t simply destroy it, versus guarding it all these years, if the secret was that big a deal.”

“I think I can answer that. Just a guess, but I suspect they were waiting.”

“Waiting? For what?”

“Waiting for someone to decrypt the Voynich, as technology improved. If you want to know a secret that’s contained in a document, but you don’t know how to decrypt it, you wait until someone comes along who does, or figures out how to. That would account for rumors of scholars deep in the Vatican spending their lives trying to decipher the Voynich. Maybe the rumors about it were true, but like everyone else, they never figured it out?” Steven speculated.

“That makes sense. It also explains why the Church only safeguarded the chapter that held the secret.”

“Exactly. Although who actually had possession of the Voynich is unknown for most of its existence, and I don’t suppose we’ll ever know what happened to quire 16. Could have just fallen out, or been removed at any point in its life.” Steven snapped his fingers. “You know, one thing I always found odd was the circumstances by which Wilfrid Voynich came into possession of the manuscript in the first place. It was found among the remaining possessions of a top Jesuit general when he passed away. So there’s the Church, again, although not the Order…that we know of. Could be that it was all some convoluted scheme to get the manuscript back out into circulation so modern cryptographers could have a crack at it.”

Natalie shrugged. “Whatever. In the end none of this will matter. Soon, you’ll have solved the puzzle, and then we’ll be in a better position to figure out what to do next.” Natalie reached over and toyed with one of the buttons on his shirt. “All this talk is making me sleepy. Are you sleepy yet, or do I need to pour some more booze down your throat first? I’m not above getting you drunk to have my way with you. And it’s not just because I’m a crypto-groupie or anything. Although that’s probably why you took up the discipline…”

“It was either that or play lead guitar in a rock band,” Steven replied.

“I never liked musicians.”

“You never heard me play guitar.”

“You ready to hit the sack?” she asked, beginning to unbutton his shirt.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

The next morning, Steven awoke to the smell of coffee brewing and the chiming of Natalie’s cell phone, which she’d left in her purse. He called out for her and then lunged out of the bed to the small dresser where it lay, pushing the gun out of the way in the small clutch to get to the phone. He hit the green call button.

“Hello.”

“Steven. I was expecting Natalie. Could you put her on, please?” Moody said without preamble.

“Sure. She’s coming.”

Natalie appeared at the door and he handed the phone across the bed. She grabbed it and ran back into the kitchen — something smelled like it was burning. Steven pulled on his pants then strode to the living room, where the laptop was waiting for his attention. He moved the mouse, tapped the Enter key, and the screen came to life. A long list of possible sentences stared back at him, and he groaned inwardly as Natalie chatted in the kitchen, rattling pans and doing three things at once.

Steven decided to check his e-mail before he started with the Scroll, which would take an unknown length of time. He got online and opened his web mail, to find over two hundred messages. He looked at the most recent, and sorted by sender. There was a new missive from Gwen that morning.

[Police stopped by again, wanted your cell, gave it to them. Said some sort of problem in Rome? Also, cryptic message from man named Luca. Says urgent you call him about Vornik.]

The mention of the Voynich jarred him. He reread it and then jotted the number down. Steven quickly went through the rest of his mail, forwarding the lion’s share to Gwen for attention. It was all business related except for that one.

What the hell was the message all about? A trap? That was the likeliest explanation. But did they really think he was stupid enough to fall for it?

Then again, what was the trap? All he was being asked to do was make a call. Which he could do from anywhere. Even over the internet, if he used one of the myriad online services.

Natalie terminated her call in the kitchen and called out to him.

“Breakfast is ready. Kind of. Hope you like your toast really well done, along with your eggs.”

“How did you know? I’m an open book to you, aren’t I?”

He approached the round wooden dining room table and sat down, marveling again at how good Natalie looked in her gym shorts and T-shirt as she brought him a plate and coffee. She returned to the kitchen, then came back with her own breakfast and sat across from him.

“What did Moody have to say?”

“The search is heating up in Rome and could go national within twenty-four hours. They have our photos from passport control and immigration. And they found Danny’s body — he’d been tortured,” Natalie said and took a bite of her toast. “Shit. It’s burnt.”

“Tortured? What does Moody suggest we do?”

“Stay put until he can get to Venice this afternoon. He’s taking a commuter flight within a few hours, and he’ll call once he’s here. But he says this is getting uglier by the minute. Now it’s your turn. What did the computer come up with on the translation?” Natalie asked.

“Well, it’s going to take a while to sort out. But I got an interesting e-mail…” Steven described the message to her.

Her eyes widened and she dropped her fork.

“It’s probably Frank. Some sort of a trick. I wouldn’t call. Certainly not until Moody’s in the loop,” she said.

“I’m not so sure about that. Where’s the trick? If I use a calling card or the web so they can’t trace me, what’s the trap?” he asked.

Natalie racked her brain, but ultimately had to agree that there was no gotcha immediately evident.

“We should get a calling card and make the call from a pay phone. Maybe something by Saint Mark’s Square, in Venice. There are tens of thousands of tourists going through it every day, so best of luck trying to run a trace — if they even could after you put the call through the calling card. And that will give me another opportunity to see Venice…and have a nice lunch there, maybe?” she reasoned. “Now, how long do you think it will take to go through the results on the Scroll?”

“Let me see what we have.” He moved to the coffee table with his plate and cup, setting them down next to the laptop before he scrolled through the results. “Give me a couple of hours to translate these and study the possible combinations. Some look like gibberish to me at first glance, but you never know.”

“I’ll leave you to it and not distract you any further,” Natalie said.

“You can distract me any time you want,” Steven said, meaning every word.

“Yeah, but we’re not getting a lot done, are we?”

“Depends on what you mean by ‘getting,’ or ‘a lot,’ or ‘done’.”

“All right, Doctor. I’ll go freshen up while you do your important work,” Natalie said, finished with her breakfast. She stood and took her plate into the kitchen, refilling her coffee before moving to the bedroom.

“I can put on a white exam coat and you can call me Doctor later,” Steven suggested.

“I’d prefer just the little mirrored head thing and nothing else. Except your boots. Is that a problem?”

“There are no problems. Only solutions.”

“That’s my boy. Now go solve the most important riddle in the world, would you? By lunchtime, preferably. Stop lagging.”

Steven returned to the screen, and cut and pasted the two hundred or so possible sentences into his translation engine, starting with Latin. The computer fan whirred as if it were trying for liftoff, and after a few minutes a new page appeared with all the English variations. He studied row after row of seeming nonsense, pausing occasionally to select the most likely suspect for each section. It was a tedious and painstaking process, but there was no substitute for human selection. One of the ever-present problems was semantics — something that might have been subject to interpretation in Latin could translate as nonsense in English, so once the possible words were segmented in that language, he’d have to go back and do his best to verify he hadn’t missed anything.

Time flew by, and before he knew it two hours had passed. Steven rubbed his blurry red eyes and stared at the paragraph he’d assembled. He was used to his thirty-two inch monitor; the laptop screen wasn’t nearly as easy to read on. Some of the terms looked like place names, so he began entering them into search engines.

Natalie emerged from the bedroom at noon to see how he was faring. He greeted her with a triumphant grin. She locked eyes with him, and he nodded.

“You didn’t,” she said.

“Sure did. Although it doesn’t look like anything about this damn Scroll is going to be easy. But I think it’s safe to say it’s given up its secret.” He hesitated, then toasted her with his now-cold coffee. “I’ve decrypted the Voynich.”