grandfather would have loved this room. The dark wood paneling was bedecked with Old Master
paintings, one of which Sophie recognized as a Poussin, her grandfather's second-favorite
painter. On the mantel above the fireplace, an alabaster bust of Isis watched over the room.
Beneath the Egyptian goddess, inside the fireplace, two stone gargoyles served as andirons,
their mouths gaping to reveal their menacing hollow throats. Gargoyles had always terrified
Sophie as a child; that was, until her grandfather cured her of the fear by taking her atop Notre
Dame Cathedral in a rainstorm. "Princess, look at these silly creatures," he had told her, pointing
to the gargoyle rainspouts with their mouths gushing water. "Do you hear that funny sound in
their throats?" Sophie nodded, having to smile at the burping sound of the water gurgling
through their throats. "They're gargling," her grandfather told her. "Gargariser! And that's where
they get the silly name 'gargoyles.' " Sophie had never again been afraid.
The fond memory caused Sophie a pang of sadness as the harsh reality of the murder
gripped her again. Grand-p ère is gone. She pictured the cryptex under the divan and wondered if
Leigh Teabing would have any idea how to open it. Or if we even should ask him. Sophie's
grandfather's final words had instructed her to find Robert Langdon. He had said nothing about
involving anyone else. We needed somewhere to hide, Sophie said, deciding to trust Robert's
judgment.
"Sir Robert!" a voice bellowed somewhere behind them. "I see you travel with a maiden."
Langdon stood up. Sophie jumped to her feet as well. The voice had come from the top of a
curled staircase that snaked up to the shadows of the second floor. At the top of the stairs, a form
moved in the shadows, only his silhouette visible.
"Good evening," Langdon called up. "Sir Leigh, may I present Sophie Neveu."
"An honor." Teabing moved into the light.
"Thank you for having us," Sophie said, now seeing the man wore metal leg braces and
used crutches. He was coming down one stair at a time. "I realize it's quite late."
"It is so late, my dear, it's early." He laughed. "Vous n'êtes pas Américaine?"
Sophie shook her head. "Parisienne."
"Your English is superb."
"Thank you. I studied at the Royal Holloway."
"So then, that explains it." Teabing hobbled lower through the shadows. "Perhaps Robert
told you I schooled just down the road at Oxford." Teabing fixed Langdon with a devilish smile.
"Of course, I also applied to Harvard as my safety school."
Their host arrived at the bottom of the stairs, appearing to Sophie no more like a knight than
Sir Elton John. Portly and ruby-faced, Sir Leigh Teabing had bushy red hair and jovial hazel
eyes that seemed to twinkle as he spoke. He wore pleated pants and a roomy silk shirt under
a paisley vest. Despite the aluminum braces on his legs, he carried himself with a resilient,
vertical dignity that seemed more a by-product of noble ancestry than any kind of conscious
effort.
Teabing arrived and extended a hand to Langdon. "Robert, you've lost weight."
Langdon grinned. "And you've found some."
Teabing laughed heartily, patting his rotund belly. "Touché. My only carnal pleasures these
days seem to be culinary." Turning now to Sophie, he gently took her hand, bowing his head
slightly, breathing lightly on her fingers, and diverting his eyes. "M'lady."
Sophie glanced at Langdon, uncertain whether she'd stepped back in time or into a
nuthouse.
The butler who had answered the door now entered carrying a tea service, which he
arranged on a table in front of the fireplace.
"This is Rémy Legaludec," Teabing said, "my manservant."
The slender butler gave a stiff nod and disappeared yet again.
"Rémy is Lyonais," Teabing whispered, as if it were an unfortunate disease. "But he does
sauces quite nicely."
Langdon looked amused. "I would have thought you'd import an English staff?"
"Good heavens, no! I would not wish a British chef on anyone except the French tax
collectors." He glanced over at Sophie. "Pardonnez-moi, Mademoiselle Neveu. Please be
assured that my distaste for the French extends only to politics and the soccer pitch. Your
government steals my money, and your football squad recently humiliated us."
Sophie offered an easy smile.
Teabing eyed her a moment and then looked at Langdon. "Something has happened. You
both look shaken."
Langdon nodded. "We've had an interesting night, Leigh."
"No doubt. You arrive on my doorstep unannounced in the middle of the night speaking of
the Grail. Tell me, is this indeed about the Grail, or did you simply say that because you know it
is the lone topic for which I would rouse myself in the middle of the night?"
A little of both, Sophie thought, picturing the cryptex hidden beneath the couch.
"Leigh," Langdon said, "we'd like to talk to you about the Priory of Sion."
Teabing's bushy eyebrows arched with intrigue. "The keepers. So this is indeed about the
Grail. You say you come with information? Something new, Robert?"
"Perhaps. We're not quite sure. We might have a better idea if we could get some
information from you first."
Teabing wagged his finger. "Ever the wily American. A game of quid pro quo. Very well. I
am at your service. What is it I can tell you?"
Langdon sighed. "I was hoping you would be kind enough to explain to Ms. Neveu the true
nature of the Holy Grail."
Teabing looked stunned. "She doesn't know?"
Langdon shook his head.
The smile that grew on Teabing's face was almost obscene. "Robert, you've brought me a
virgin?"
Langdon winced, glancing at Sophie. "Virgin is the term Grail enthusiasts use to describe
anyone who has never heard the true Grail story."
Teabing turned eagerly to Sophie. "How much do you know, my dear?"
Sophie quickly outlined what Langdon had explained earlier— the Priory of Sion, the
Knights Templar, the Sangreal documents, and the Holy Grail, which many claimed was not a
cup... but rather something far more powerful.
"That's all?" Teabing fired Langdon a scandalous look. "Robert, I thought you were a
gentleman. You've robbed her of the climax!"
"I know, I thought perhaps you and I could..." Langdon apparently decided the unseemly
metaphor had gone far enough.
Teabing already had Sophie locked in his twinkling gaze. "You are a Grail virgin, my dear.
And trust me, you will never forget your first time."
CHAPTER 55
Seated on the divan beside Langdon, Sophie drank her tea and ate a scone, feeling the welcome
effects of caffeine and food. Sir Leigh Teabing was beaming as he awkwardly paced before the
open fire, his leg braces clicking on the stone hearth.
"The Holy Grail," Teabing said, his voice sermonic. "Most people ask me only where it is. I
fear that is a question I may never answer." He turned and looked directly at Sophie. "However...
the far more relevant question is this: What is the Holy Grail?"
Sophie sensed a rising air of academic anticipation now in both of her male companions.
"To fully understand the Grail," Teabing continued, "we must first understand the Bible.
How well do you know the New Testament?"
Sophie shrugged. "Not at all, really. I was raised by a man who worshipped Leonardo da
Vinci."
Teabing looked both startled and pleased. "An enlightened soul. Superb! Then you must be
aware that Leonardo was one of the keepers of the secret of the Holy Grail. And he hid clues in
his art."
"Robert told me as much, yes."
"And Da Vinci's views on the New Testament?"
"I have no idea."
Teabing's eyes turned mirthful as he motioned to the bookshelf across the room. "Robert,
would you mind? On the bottom shelf. La Storia di Leonardo."
Langdon went across the room, found a large art book, and brought it back, setting it down
on the table between them. Twisting the book to face Sophie, Teabing flipped open the heavy
cover and pointed inside the rear cover to a series of quotations. "From Da Vinci's notebook on
polemics and speculation," Teabing said, indicating one quote in particular. "I think you'll find
this relevant to our discussion."
Sophie read the words.
Many have made a trade of delusions
and false miracles, deceiving the stupid multitude.
— LEONARDO DA VINCI
"Here's another," Teabing said, pointing to a different quote.
Blinding ignorance does mislead us.
O! Wretched mortals, open your eyes!
— LEONARDO DA VINCI
Sophie felt a little chill. "Da Vinci is talking about the Bible?"
Teabing nodded. "Leonardo's feelings about the Bible relate directly to the Holy Grail. In
fact, Da Vinci painted the true Grail, which I will show you momentarily, but first we must
speak of the Bible." Teabing smiled. "And everything you need to know about the Bible can be
summed up by the great canon doctor Martyn Percy." Teabing cleared his throat and declared,
"The Bible did not arrive by fax from heaven."
"I beg your pardon?"
"The Bible is a product of man, my dear. Not of God. The Bible did not fall magically from
the clouds. Man created it as a historical record of tumultuous times, and it has evolved through
countless translations, additions, and revisions. History has never had a definitive version of the
book."
"Okay."
"Jesus Christ was a historical figure of staggering influence, perhaps the most enigmatic
and inspirational leader the world has ever seen. As the prophesied Messiah, Jesus toppled kings,
inspired millions, and founded new philosophies. As a descendant of the lines of King Solomon
and King David, Jesus possessed a rightful claim to the throne of the King of the Jews.
Understandably, His life was recorded by thousands of followers across the land." Teabing
paused to sip his tea and then placed the cup back on the mantel. "More than eighty gospels were
considered for the New Testament, and yet only a relative few were chosen for inclusion—
Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John among them.
"Who chose which gospels to include?" Sophie asked.
"Aha!" Teabing burst in with enthusiasm. "The fundamental irony of Christianity! The
Bible, as we know it today, was collated by the pagan Roman emperor Constantine the Great."
"I thought Constantine was a Christian," Sophie said.
"Hardly," Teabing scoffed. "He was a lifelong pagan who was baptized on his deathbed, too
weak to protest. In Constantine's day, Rome's official religion was sun worship— the cult of Sol
Invictus, or the Invincible Sun— and Constantine was its head priest. Unfortunately for him, a
growing religious turmoil was gripping Rome. Three centuries after the crucifixion of Jesus
Christ, Christ's followers had multiplied exponentially. Christians and pagans began warring,
and the conflict grew to such proportions that it threatened to rend Rome in two. Constantine
decided something had to be done. In 325 A.D., he decided to unify Rome under a single
religion. Christianity."
Sophie was surprised. "Why would a pagan emperor choose Christianity as the official
religion?"
Teabing chuckled. "Constantine was a very good businessman. He could see that
Christianity was on the rise, and he simply backed the winning horse. Historians still marvel at
the brilliance with which Constantine converted the sun-worshipping pagans to Christianity. By
fusing pagan symbols, dates, and rituals into the growing Christian tradition, he created a kind of
hybrid religion that was acceptable to both parties."
"Transmogrification," Langdon said. "The vestiges of pagan religion in Christian
symbology are undeniable. Egyptian sun disks became the halos of Catholic saints. Pictograms
of Isis nursing her miraculously conceived son Horus became the blueprint for our modern
images of the Virgin Mary nursing Baby Jesus. And virtually all the elements of the Catholic
ritual— the miter, the altar, the doxology, and communion, the act of "God-eating"— were taken
directly from earlier pagan mystery religions."
Teabing groaned. "Don't get a symbologist started on Christian icons. Nothing in
Christianity is original. The pre-Christian God Mithras— called the Son of God and the Light of
the World— was born on December 25, died, was buried in a rock tomb, and then resurrected in
three days. By the way, December 25 is also the birthday of Osiris, Adonis, and Dionysus. The
newborn Krishna was presented with gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Even Christianity's weekly
holy day was stolen from the pagans."
"What do you mean?"
"Originally," Langdon said, "Christianity honored the Jewish Sabbath of Saturday, but
Constantine shifted it to coincide with the pagan's veneration day of the sun." He paused,
