“This mythical substance was believed to be so wondrous that these alchemists soon assigned other powers to it as well,” Boustany added. “Aside from being the catalyst that would help create untold wealth, they also attributed to it the power to heal all illnesses. Eventually, conferring immortality was also believed to be within its powers. And so the notion of a potential al-ikseer of life—an elixir of life — took hold, and al-kheemia became a double-pronged quest for two intimately related goals: gold and eternal life.”
The two became intimately linked in the alchemists’ minds. Gold itself was incorruptible: It didn’t age. Some scientists even found ways to ingest it as an elixir itself — usually in powdered form — and gold became more sought after for its perceived antiaging powers than for its timeless beauty or for its monetary value.
The notion of an elixir of life, Boustany went on, embraced the archetypal theory of aging, blaming it on the loss of some kind of vital substance. That was why our bodies effectively shriveled up and shrank before ceasing to function altogether. The Taoists called this substance the ching and described it as the vital breath of life. Aristotle, Avicenna, and countless others since also thought the body, in aging, lost its “innate moisture.” The Viennese physician Eugen Steinach preached coitus reservatus to rejuvenate his patients — a method of preserving the vital fluid that we now call a vasectomy. Another surgeon, Serge Voronoff, believed that since reproductive cells didn’t age as badly as the other cells in the body, they had to contain some kind of antiaging hormone. In a misguided attempt to transfer more of that magical elixir back into the body, he grafted monkey testicles into his patients’ own testes with predictably dire results. Even the fervent belief in a rosy afterlife didn’t seem to deter the desperate pursuit of longevity: In the 1950s, the aging Pope Pius XII kept six personal physicians on hand at all times. A Swiss surgeon by the name of Paul Niehans injected him with the glands of lamb fetuses. Niehans’s impressive roster of clients at his clinic in Montreux, Switzerland, included kings and Hollywood stars.
“And so,” Boustany concluded, “over the ages, alchemists and quacks concocted all kinds of potions and elixirs, fountains of youth “that could replenish or replace this lost ‘essence’ of life. The hucksters’ wagons have since been replaced by the supplements aisles in supermarkets and by the Internet, the snake-oil salesmen by pseudoscientists touting hormones, minerals, and other miracle cures and promising to restore our bodies to their youthful vigor with little or no hard, scientific evidence — or a highly selective interpretation of scientific data — to back up their claims. But the quest is the same. It’s the final frontier, the only one left for us to conquer.”
Mia sighed glumly. “So I guess what we’re dealing with here is a madman.”
“Sounds like it.”
Mia put the phone down, fighting with the notion that the mad scientist tag that she’d been keeping at bay when thinking of the man who held her mother, probably wasn’t far from the truth.
Chapter 39
The hakeem sank back in the armchair of his study, feeling blissfully invigorated.
The morning’s treatment, a weekly regimen he had religiously followed for years, had given him its customary boost. He relished the crisp autumn air, breathing it in with big, hungry gulps as the cocktail of hormones and steroids coursed through his veins and made his skin feel as if it were electrified. The rush cleared his head and his eyes and heightened his senses, almost slowing down everything around him. It was the best high he could possibly imagine, especially since it didn’t involve his losing control, something that would, for him, be inconceivable.
If only people knew what they were missing.
In addition, the news from Beirut was promising. Omar and his men had grabbed the assistant professor. One of them had been killed, another badly wounded — he would have to be taken care of, as a trip to a hospital, even one in a friendly part of town, was out of the question, and he was apparently too badly wounded to be sneaked over the border — but, all in all, the operation had been successful.
It was a shame the American hadn’t been killed. The hakeem sensed that the man’s interest was becoming a problem. He was too close to the situation, too…committed. Omar had informed the hakeem that the American had taken the Bishop woman’s laptop, as well as a file, from her apartment. One file. Standard procedure in such an investigation, or was there more to it? Yes, admittedly, an American woman had been abducted, and the Americans took such things more seriously than most, but the man’s stubborn determination hinted at something more personal at work.
Did he know what was really at stake?
He’d ordered Omar to take extra precautions from here on. The Iraqi dealer’s phone call was imminent. The book would soon be his.
Things were looking good.
Better than good.
Somehow, with the clarity afforded to him by the fresh dose swirling inside him, he knew that this time, finally, he really was close.
He shut his eyes and sucked in a deep breath, relishing the prospect of imminent success. With his mind gliding along unhindered, images of home soon swooped into his mind.
Reminiscences.
Of the first time he’d taken notice of the chapel’s unusual offerings.
The first time he became aware of his unique heritage.
He’d been inside the chapel before, of course. He’d grown up there, in Naples, a city where, to this day, his ancestor’s name was still whispered in hushed tones. But that visit, at the age of nine, had awoken him to the mysteries of his past.
His grandfather had taken him to the chapel that day.
He enjoyed spending time with the old man. There was something solid and comforting about him. Even at that tender age, the young boy — his name was Ludovico, back then — could sense the respect his grandfather commanded from those around him. He yearned for that inner strength himself, especially in the playground at school, where bigger, stronger boys would taunt him because of his ancestry.
In Naples, the di Sangro cross was a heavy one to bear.
His grandfather had taught him to stand proud and take note of his family’s heritage. They were princes, for God’s sake, and besides, geniuses and visionaries were often derided and persecuted in their own time. Ludovico’s father hadn’t been interested in understanding what lay in their past, choosing to remain weakly and embarrassingly apologetic about his lineage. Ludovico had been different, and his grandfather had seen it in the young boy and nurtured it. Their ancestor had many startling achievements, he’d taught him. Yes, he’d been called everything from a sorcerer to a diabolical alchemist. Rumors abounded that he’d performed vile experiments on unwitting subjects. Some believed these were related to perfecting the creation of even better castrati, the illegally castrated singers that entranced audiences and drove Italian opera to prominence in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Some went further, claiming that the prince had ordered the killing of seven cardinals who took displeasure with his interests and had chairs made from their bones and skin.
As far as his grandfather was concerned, such talk was indicative of the limited intellect and imagination, and inevitably the jealousy, of Raimondo di Sangro’s detractors. After all, their ancestor had belonged to the prestigious Accademia della Crusca, the highly esteemed club of Italy’s literary elite. He’d invented new types of firearms such as a rear-loaded shotgun, as well as revolutionary fireworks. He’d created waterproof fabrics and perfected new techniques for coloring marble and glass. Far more than that, however, he’d created a monument of immortal power: the Cappella San Severo, his personal chapel in the heart of Naples.