"But this was in the 1600s," Langdon argued. "Nobody spoke English in Italy, not even—" He stopped short, realizing what he was about to say. "Not even… the clergy." Langdon’s academic mind hummed in high gear. "In the 1600s," he said, talking faster now, "English was one language the Vatican had not yet embraced. They dealt in Italian, Latin, German, even Spanish and French, but English was totally foreign inside the Vatican. They considered English a polluted, free-thinkers language for profane men like Chaucer and Shakespeare." Langdon flashed suddenly on the Illuminati brands of Earth, Air, Fire, Water. The legend that the brands were in English now made a bizarre kind of sense.
"So you’re saying maybe Galileo considered English la lingua pura because it was the one language the Vatican did not control?"
"Yes. Or maybe by putting the clue in English, Galileo was subtly restricting the readership away from the Vatican."
"But it’s not even a clue," Vittoria argued. "The path of light is laid, the sacred test? What the hell does that mean?"
She’s right, Langdon thought. The line didn’t help in any way. But as he spoke the phrase again in his mind, a strange fact hit him. Now that’s odd, he thought. What are the chances of that?
"We need to get out of here," Vittoria said, sounding hoarse.
Langdon wasn’t listening. The path of light is laid, the sacred test. "It’s a damn line of iambic pentameter," he said suddenly, counting the syllables again. "Five couplets of alternating stressed and unstressed syllables."
Vittoria looked lost. "Iambic who?"
For an instant Langdon was back at Phillips Exeter Academy sitting in a Saturday morning English class. Hell on earth. The school baseball star, Peter Greer, was having trouble remembering the number of couplets necessary for a line of Shakespearean iambic pentameter. Their professor, an animated schoolmaster named Bissell, leapt onto the table and bellowed, "Penta-meter, Greer! Think of home plate! A penta-gon! Five sides! Penta! Penta! Penta! Jeeeesh!"
Five couplets, Langdon thought. Each couplet, by definition, having two syllables. He could not believe in his entire career he had never made the connection. Iambic pentameter was a symmetrical meter based on the sacred Illuminati numbers of 5 and 2!
You’re reaching! Langdon told himself, trying to push it from his mind. A meaningless coincidence! But the thought stuck. Five… for Pythagoras and the pentagram. Two… for the duality of all things.
A moment later, another realization sent a numbing sensation down his legs. Iambic pentameter, on account of its simplicity, was often called "pure verse" or "pure meter." La lingua pura? Could this have been the pure language the Illuminati had been referring to? The path of light is laid, the sacred test…
"Uh oh," Vittoria said.
Langdon wheeled to see her rotating the folio upside down. He felt a knot in his gut. Not again. "There’s no way that line is an ambigram!"
"No, it’s not an ambigram… but it’s…" She kept turning the document, 90 degrees at every turn.
"It’s what?"
Vittoria looked up. "It’s not the only line."
"There’s another?"
"There’s a different line on every margin. Top, bottom, left, and right. I think it’s a poem."
"Four lines?" Langdon bristled with excitement. Galileo was a poet? "Let me see!"
Vittoria did not relinquish the page. She kept turning the page in quarter turns. "I didn’t see the lines before because they’re on the edges." She cocked her head over the last line. "Huh. You know what? Galileo didn’t even write this."
"What!"
"The poem is signed John Milton."
"John Milton?" The influential English poet who wrote Paradise Lost was a contemporary of Galileo’s and a savant who conspiracy buffs put at the top of their list of Illuminati suspects. Milton’s alleged affiliation with Galileo’s Illuminati was one legend Langdon suspected was true. Not only had Milton made a well-documented 1638 pilgrimage to Rome to "commune with enlightened men," but he had held meetings with Galileo during the scientist’s house arrest, meetings portrayed in many Renaissance paintings, including Annibale Gatti’s famous Galileo and Milton, which hung even now in the IMSS Museum in Florence.
"Milton knew Galileo, didn’t he?" Vittoria said, finally pushing the folio over to Langdon. "Maybe he wrote the poem as a favor?"
