illuminati
o ovoj sekti se malo zna a svaki dan se susrecemo s njenm s krivenim porukama.
ovu sektu osniva adam weishaupt 1776 iz ingolstadta,njemacka.on nudi svojim sljedbenicima "svjetlost razuma", sto znaci usavrsavanje prirodnog razuma .po illuminatima, covjek je bog.
simboli illuminata su oko u piramidi i po njiihovom vjerovanju magicni broj 23 .njegova sekta dobija zabranu i adam nestaje 1785 god. njegov datum smrti je nepoznat,ali interesantno je da ima dosta slicnosti sa g.washingotnom i nije nemoguce da je 1789 bio kandidat za predsjenika usa.odnosno da je on g.washington.naima na 1dolar novcanici nalazi se 1predsjenik amerike i piramida . interesantna je piramida na kojoj je ispisano rimskim brojevim "MDCCLXXV" sto je jednako 1776-oj...
godini osnivanja ove sekte.ista tako na 1 dolar novcanic se moze odmah ispod piramide na latinskom procitati "Novus ordo seclorum", sto znaci "New World Order".
po expertima,ako je on 1 predsjednik usa bio, onda bi neke stvari bile odgonetnute ,kao smrt americkih predsjenika ili rodbinska veza vecine njih .
da se vratim broju 23 i piramidi
kada podijelimo 2/3 dobijemo 0,666
slovo "W"je 23 po redoslijedu engleske , a sto je jos zanimljivije 6.po redoslijedu jevrjske abecede.tako kada ukucamo na kompjuter www(World Wide Web) ustvari ukucamo 666.pomalo smijesno ,ali nije nemoguce.
dalje simbole iluminata susrecemo na aol-u (piramida s okom), a aol chatrooms mogu samo primti 23 "chatasa".
piramida se nalazi cigarama camel
obelisk na place de la concorde u parizu je 23 m i na vrhu piramida
cezar ubijen sa 23 uboda.
pa i 11.09.2001 (11+9+2+1=23)
ima jos datuma igdje se sabiranjem dolazi do"23"
naime 23- eg dana u mjesecu njemacka 1948 postaje republika
a 23 se i ujedinjuje.
pomalo cudno ,da je 1euro kovanica 23 milimetra.
ovo sam pokupio sa raznoraznih internet stranicama...
supljak ili bi moglo imati malo istine?
iluminati i skrivene poruke
-
Murat Sabanovic
- Posts: 5527
- Joined: 18/01/2005 20:55
#4
krkane jedan prvo nisam davincijev kod procito a drugo sam pito vase misljenjepitt wrote:Evo sta se desi kad neko procita da vinchi code i A & D i sve shvati ozbiljno
-
stella_k
- Posts: 2474
- Joined: 09/03/2005 00:16
- Location: Rodis se u Sarajevu i umires za Sarajevo
#8
E bas, nek si mu rek'oMurat Sabanovic wrote:krkane jedan prvo nisam davincijev kod procito a drugo sam pito vase misljenjepitt wrote:Evo sta se desi kad neko procita da vinchi code i A & D i sve shvati ozbiljno
-
da pamtis
- Posts: 1514
- Joined: 16/07/2005 14:10
#10
CHAPTER 1
Robert Langdon awoke slowly.
A telephone was ringing in the darkness—a tinny, unfamiliar ring. He
fumbled
for the bedside lamp and turned it on. Squinting at his surroundings he
saw a
plush Renaissance bedroom with Louis XVI furniture, hand-frescoed
walls, and a
colossal mahogany four-poster bed.
Where the hell am I?
The jacquard bathrobe hanging on his bedpost bore the monogram: HOTEL
RITZ
PARIS.
Slowly, the fog began to lift.
Langdon picked up the receiver. "Hello?"
"Monsieur Langdon?" a man's voice said. "I hope I have not awoken you?"
Dazed, Langdon looked at the bedside clock. It was 12:32 A.M. He had
been
asleep only an hour, but he felt like the dead.
"This is the concierge, monsieur. I apologize for this intrusion, but
you have
a visitor. He insists it is urgent."
Langdon still felt fuzzy. A visitor? His eyes focused now on a crumpled
flyer
on his bedside table.
THE AMERICAN UNIVERSITY OF PARIS
proudly presents
AN EVENING WITH ROBERT LANGDON
PROFESSOR OF RELIGIOUS SYMBOLOGY,
HARVARD UNIVERSITY
Langdon groaned. Tonight's lecture—a slide show about pagan symbolism
hidden
in the stones of Chartres Cathedral—had probably ruffled some
conservative
feathers in the audience. Most likely, some religious scholar had
trailed him
home to pick a fight.
"I'm sorry," Langdon said, "but I'm very tired and—"
"Mais, monsieur," the concierge pressed, lowering his voice to an
urgent
whisper. "Your guest is an important man."
Langdon had little doubt. His books on religious paintings and cult
symbology
had made him a reluctant celebrity in the art world, and last year
Langdon's
visibility had increased a hundredfold after his involvement in a
widely
publicized incident at the Vatican. Since then, the stream of
self-important
historians and art buffs arriving at his door had seemed never-ending.
"If you would be so kind," Langdon said, doing his best to remain
polite, "could you take the man's name and number, and tell him I'll
try to
call him before I leave Paris on Tuesday? Thank you." He hung up before
the
concierge could protest.
Sitting up now, Langdon frowned at his bedside Guest Relations
Handbook, whose
cover boasted: SLEEP LIKE A BABY IN THE CITY OF LIGHTS. SLUMBER AT THE
PARIS
RITZ. He turned and gazed tiredly into the full-length mirror across
the room.
The man staring back at him was a stranger—tousled and weary.
You need a vacation, Robert.
The past year had taken a heavy toll on him, but he didn't appreciate
seeing
proof in the mirror. His usually sharp blue eyes looked hazy and drawn
tonight. A dark stubble was shrouding his strong jaw and dimpled chin.
Around
his temples, the gray highlights were advancing, making their way
deeper into
his thicket of coarse black hair. Although his female colleagues
insisted the
gray only accentuated his bookish appeal, Langdon knew better.
If Boston Magazine could see me now.
Last month, much to Langdon's embarrassment, Boston Magazine had listed
him as
one of that city's top ten most intriguing people—a dubious honor that
made
him the brunt of endless ribbing by his Harvard colleagues. Tonight,
three
thousand miles from home, the accolade had resurfaced to haunt him at
the
lecture he had given.
"Ladies and gentlemen..." the hostess had announced to a full house at
the
American University of Paris's Pavilion Dauphine, "Our guest tonight
needs no
introduction. He is the author of numerous books: The Symbology of
Secret
Sects, The An of the Illuminati, The Lost Language of Ideograms, and
when I
say he wrote the book on Religious Iconology, I mean that quite
literally.
Many of you use his textbooks in class."
The students in the crowd nodded enthusiastically.
"I had planned to introduce him tonight by sharing his impressive
curriculum
vitae. However..." She glanced playfully at Langdon, who was seated
onstage. "An audience member has just handed me a far more, shall we
say...
intriguing introduction."
She held up a copy of Boston Magazine.
Langdon cringed. Where the hell did she get that?
The hostess began reading choice excerpts from the inane article, and
Langdon
felt himself sinking lower and lower in his chair. Thirty seconds
later, the
crowd was grinning, and the woman showed no signs of letting up. "And
Mr.
Langdon's refusal to speak publicly about his unusual role in last
year's
Vatican conclave certainly wins him points on our intrigue-o-meter."
The
hostess goaded the crowd. "Would you like to hear more?"
The crowd applauded.
Somebody stop her, Langdon pleaded as she dove into the article again.
"Although Professor Langdon might not be considered hunk-handsome like
some of
our younger awardees, this forty-something academic has more than his
share of
scholarly allure. His captivating presence is punctuated by an
unusually low,
baritone speaking voice, which his female students describe as
'chocolate for
the ears.' "
The hall erupted in laughter.
Langdon forced an awkward smile. He knew what came next—some ridiculous
line
about "Harrison Ford in Harris tweed"—and because this evening he had
figured
it was finally safe again to wear his Harris tweed and Burberry
turtleneck, he
decided to take action.
"Thank you, Monique," Langdon said, standing prematurely and edging her
away
from the podium. "Boston Magazine clearly has a gift for fiction." He
turned
to the audience with an embarrassed sigh. "And if I find which one of
you
provided that article, I'll have the consulate deport you."
The crowd laughed.
"Well, folks, as you all know, I'm here tonight to talk about the power
of
symbols..."
The ringing of Langdon's hotel phone once again broke the silence.
Groaning in disbelief, he picked up. "Yes?"
As expected, it was the concierge. "Mr. Langdon, again my apologies. I
am
calling to inform you that your guest is now en route to your room. I
thought
I should alert you."
Langdon was wide awake now. "You sent someone to my room?"
"I apologize, monsieur, but a man like this... I cannot presume the
authority
to stop him."
"Who exactly is he?"
But the concierge was gone.
Almost immediately, a heavy fist pounded on Langdon's door.
Uncertain, Langdon slid off the bed, feeling his toes sink deep into
the
savonniere carpet. He donned the hotel bathrobe and moved toward the
door. "Who is it?"
"Mr. Langdon? I need to speak with you." The man's English was
accented—a
sharp, authoritative bark. "My name is Lieutenant Jerome Collet.
Direction
Centrale Police Judiciaire."
Langdon paused. The Judicial Police? The DCPJ was the rough equivalent
of the
U.S. FBI.
Leaving the security chain in place, Langdon opened the door a few
inches. The
face staring back at him was thin and washed out. The man was
exceptionally
lean, dressed in an official-looking blue uniform.
"May I come in?" the agent asked.
Langdon hesitated, feeling uncertain as the stranger's sallow eyes
studied
him. "What is this all about?"
"My capitaine requires your expertise in a private matter."
"Now?" Langdon managed. "It's after midnight."
"Am I correct that you were scheduled to meet with the curator of the
Louvre
this evening?"
Langdon felt a sudden surge of uneasiness. He and the revered curator
Jacques
Saunière had been slated to meet for drinks after Langdon's lecture
tonight,
but Saunière had never shown up. "Yes. How did you know that?"
"We found your name in his daily planner."
"I trust nothing is wrong?"
The agent gave a dire sigh and slid a Polaroid snapshot through the
narrow
opening in the door.
When Langdon saw the photo, his entire body went rigid.
"This photo was taken less than an hour ago. Inside the Louvre."
As Langdon stared at the bizarre image, his initial revulsion and shock
gave
way to a sudden upwelling of anger. "Who would do this!"
"We had hoped that you might help us answer that very question,
considering
your knowledge in symbology and your plans to meet with him."
Langdon stared at the picture, his horror now laced with fear. The
image was
gruesome and profoundly strange, bringing with it an unsettling sense
of déjà
vu. A little over a year ago, Langdon had received a photograph of a
corpse
and a similar request for help. Twenty-four hours later, he had almost
lost
his life inside Vatican City. This photo was entirely different, and
yet
something about the scenario felt disquietingly familiar.
The agent checked his watch. "My capitaine is waiting, sir."
Langdon barely heard him. His eyes were still riveted on the picture.
"This
symbol here, and the way his body is so oddly..."
"Positioned?" the agent offered.
Langdon nodded, feeling a chill as he looked up. "I can't imagine who
would do
this to someone."
The agent looked grim. "You don't understand, Mr. Langdon. What you see
in
this photograph..." He paused. "Monsieur Saunière did that to himself."
hocete li jos
Robert Langdon awoke slowly.
A telephone was ringing in the darkness—a tinny, unfamiliar ring. He
fumbled
for the bedside lamp and turned it on. Squinting at his surroundings he
saw a
plush Renaissance bedroom with Louis XVI furniture, hand-frescoed
walls, and a
colossal mahogany four-poster bed.
Where the hell am I?
The jacquard bathrobe hanging on his bedpost bore the monogram: HOTEL
RITZ
PARIS.
Slowly, the fog began to lift.
Langdon picked up the receiver. "Hello?"
"Monsieur Langdon?" a man's voice said. "I hope I have not awoken you?"
Dazed, Langdon looked at the bedside clock. It was 12:32 A.M. He had
been
asleep only an hour, but he felt like the dead.
"This is the concierge, monsieur. I apologize for this intrusion, but
you have
a visitor. He insists it is urgent."
Langdon still felt fuzzy. A visitor? His eyes focused now on a crumpled
flyer
on his bedside table.
THE AMERICAN UNIVERSITY OF PARIS
proudly presents
AN EVENING WITH ROBERT LANGDON
PROFESSOR OF RELIGIOUS SYMBOLOGY,
HARVARD UNIVERSITY
Langdon groaned. Tonight's lecture—a slide show about pagan symbolism
hidden
in the stones of Chartres Cathedral—had probably ruffled some
conservative
feathers in the audience. Most likely, some religious scholar had
trailed him
home to pick a fight.
"I'm sorry," Langdon said, "but I'm very tired and—"
"Mais, monsieur," the concierge pressed, lowering his voice to an
urgent
whisper. "Your guest is an important man."
Langdon had little doubt. His books on religious paintings and cult
symbology
had made him a reluctant celebrity in the art world, and last year
Langdon's
visibility had increased a hundredfold after his involvement in a
widely
publicized incident at the Vatican. Since then, the stream of
self-important
historians and art buffs arriving at his door had seemed never-ending.
"If you would be so kind," Langdon said, doing his best to remain
polite, "could you take the man's name and number, and tell him I'll
try to
call him before I leave Paris on Tuesday? Thank you." He hung up before
the
concierge could protest.
Sitting up now, Langdon frowned at his bedside Guest Relations
Handbook, whose
cover boasted: SLEEP LIKE A BABY IN THE CITY OF LIGHTS. SLUMBER AT THE
PARIS
RITZ. He turned and gazed tiredly into the full-length mirror across
the room.
The man staring back at him was a stranger—tousled and weary.
You need a vacation, Robert.
The past year had taken a heavy toll on him, but he didn't appreciate
seeing
proof in the mirror. His usually sharp blue eyes looked hazy and drawn
tonight. A dark stubble was shrouding his strong jaw and dimpled chin.
Around
his temples, the gray highlights were advancing, making their way
deeper into
his thicket of coarse black hair. Although his female colleagues
insisted the
gray only accentuated his bookish appeal, Langdon knew better.
If Boston Magazine could see me now.
Last month, much to Langdon's embarrassment, Boston Magazine had listed
him as
one of that city's top ten most intriguing people—a dubious honor that
made
him the brunt of endless ribbing by his Harvard colleagues. Tonight,
three
thousand miles from home, the accolade had resurfaced to haunt him at
the
lecture he had given.
"Ladies and gentlemen..." the hostess had announced to a full house at
the
American University of Paris's Pavilion Dauphine, "Our guest tonight
needs no
introduction. He is the author of numerous books: The Symbology of
Secret
Sects, The An of the Illuminati, The Lost Language of Ideograms, and
when I
say he wrote the book on Religious Iconology, I mean that quite
literally.
Many of you use his textbooks in class."
The students in the crowd nodded enthusiastically.
"I had planned to introduce him tonight by sharing his impressive
curriculum
vitae. However..." She glanced playfully at Langdon, who was seated
onstage. "An audience member has just handed me a far more, shall we
say...
intriguing introduction."
She held up a copy of Boston Magazine.
Langdon cringed. Where the hell did she get that?
The hostess began reading choice excerpts from the inane article, and
Langdon
felt himself sinking lower and lower in his chair. Thirty seconds
later, the
crowd was grinning, and the woman showed no signs of letting up. "And
Mr.
Langdon's refusal to speak publicly about his unusual role in last
year's
Vatican conclave certainly wins him points on our intrigue-o-meter."
The
hostess goaded the crowd. "Would you like to hear more?"
The crowd applauded.
Somebody stop her, Langdon pleaded as she dove into the article again.
"Although Professor Langdon might not be considered hunk-handsome like
some of
our younger awardees, this forty-something academic has more than his
share of
scholarly allure. His captivating presence is punctuated by an
unusually low,
baritone speaking voice, which his female students describe as
'chocolate for
the ears.' "
The hall erupted in laughter.
Langdon forced an awkward smile. He knew what came next—some ridiculous
line
about "Harrison Ford in Harris tweed"—and because this evening he had
figured
it was finally safe again to wear his Harris tweed and Burberry
turtleneck, he
decided to take action.
"Thank you, Monique," Langdon said, standing prematurely and edging her
away
from the podium. "Boston Magazine clearly has a gift for fiction." He
turned
to the audience with an embarrassed sigh. "And if I find which one of
you
provided that article, I'll have the consulate deport you."
The crowd laughed.
"Well, folks, as you all know, I'm here tonight to talk about the power
of
symbols..."
The ringing of Langdon's hotel phone once again broke the silence.
Groaning in disbelief, he picked up. "Yes?"
As expected, it was the concierge. "Mr. Langdon, again my apologies. I
am
calling to inform you that your guest is now en route to your room. I
thought
I should alert you."
Langdon was wide awake now. "You sent someone to my room?"
"I apologize, monsieur, but a man like this... I cannot presume the
authority
to stop him."
"Who exactly is he?"
But the concierge was gone.
Almost immediately, a heavy fist pounded on Langdon's door.
Uncertain, Langdon slid off the bed, feeling his toes sink deep into
the
savonniere carpet. He donned the hotel bathrobe and moved toward the
door. "Who is it?"
"Mr. Langdon? I need to speak with you." The man's English was
accented—a
sharp, authoritative bark. "My name is Lieutenant Jerome Collet.
Direction
Centrale Police Judiciaire."
Langdon paused. The Judicial Police? The DCPJ was the rough equivalent
of the
U.S. FBI.
Leaving the security chain in place, Langdon opened the door a few
inches. The
face staring back at him was thin and washed out. The man was
exceptionally
lean, dressed in an official-looking blue uniform.
"May I come in?" the agent asked.
Langdon hesitated, feeling uncertain as the stranger's sallow eyes
studied
him. "What is this all about?"
"My capitaine requires your expertise in a private matter."
"Now?" Langdon managed. "It's after midnight."
"Am I correct that you were scheduled to meet with the curator of the
Louvre
this evening?"
Langdon felt a sudden surge of uneasiness. He and the revered curator
Jacques
Saunière had been slated to meet for drinks after Langdon's lecture
tonight,
but Saunière had never shown up. "Yes. How did you know that?"
"We found your name in his daily planner."
"I trust nothing is wrong?"
The agent gave a dire sigh and slid a Polaroid snapshot through the
narrow
opening in the door.
When Langdon saw the photo, his entire body went rigid.
"This photo was taken less than an hour ago. Inside the Louvre."
As Langdon stared at the bizarre image, his initial revulsion and shock
gave
way to a sudden upwelling of anger. "Who would do this!"
"We had hoped that you might help us answer that very question,
considering
your knowledge in symbology and your plans to meet with him."
Langdon stared at the picture, his horror now laced with fear. The
image was
gruesome and profoundly strange, bringing with it an unsettling sense
of déjà
vu. A little over a year ago, Langdon had received a photograph of a
corpse
and a similar request for help. Twenty-four hours later, he had almost
lost
his life inside Vatican City. This photo was entirely different, and
yet
something about the scenario felt disquietingly familiar.
The agent checked his watch. "My capitaine is waiting, sir."
Langdon barely heard him. His eyes were still riveted on the picture.
"This
symbol here, and the way his body is so oddly..."
"Positioned?" the agent offered.
Langdon nodded, feeling a chill as he looked up. "I can't imagine who
would do
this to someone."
The agent looked grim. "You don't understand, Mr. Langdon. What you see
in
this photograph..." He paused. "Monsieur Saunière did that to himself."
hocete li jos 
-
da pamtis
- Posts: 1514
- Joined: 16/07/2005 14:10
#13
CHAPTER 2
One mile away, the hulking albino named Silas limped through the front
gate of
the luxurious brownstone residence on Rue La Bruyère. The spiked cilice
belt
that he wore around his thigh cut into his flesh, and yet his soul sang
with
satisfaction of service to the Lord.
Pain is good.
His red eyes scanned the lobby as he entered the residence. Empty. He
climbed
the stairs quietly, not wanting to awaken any of his fellow numeraries.
His
bedroom door was open; locks were forbidden here. He entered, closing
the door
behind him.
The room was spartan—hardwood floors, a pine dresser, a canvas mat in
the
corner that served as his bed. He was a visitor here this week, and yet
for
many years he had been blessed with a similar sanctuary in New York
City.
The Lord has provided me shelter and purpose in my life.
Tonight, at last, Silas felt he had begun to repay his debt. Hurrying
to the
dresser, he found the cell phone hidden in his bottom drawer and placed
a call.
"Yes?" a male voice answered.
"Teacher, I have returned."
"Speak," the voice commanded, sounding pleased to hear from him.
"All four are gone. The three sénéchaux... and the Grand Master
himself."
There was a momentary pause, as if for prayer. "Then I assume you have
the
information?"
"All four concurred. Independently."
"And you believed them?"
"Their agreement was too great for coincidence."
An excited breath. "Excellent. I had feared the brotherhood's
reputation for
secrecy might prevail."
"The prospect of death is strong motivation."
"So, my pupil, tell me what I must know."
Silas knew the information he had gleaned from his victims would come
as a
shock. "Teacher, all four confirmed the existence of the clef de
voûte... the
legendary keystone."
He heard a quick intake of breath over the phone and could feel the
Teacher's
excitement. "The keystone. Exactly as we suspected."
According to lore, the brotherhood had created a map of stone—a clef de
voûte... or keystone—an engraved tablet that revealed the final resting
place
of the brotherhood's greatest secret... information so powerful that
its
protection was the reason for the brotherhood's very existence.
"When we possess the keystone," the Teacher said, "we will be only one
step
away."
"We are closer than you think. The keystone is here in Paris."
"Paris? Incredible. It is almost too easy."
Silas relayed the earlier events of the evening... how all four of his
victims, moments before death, had desperately tried to buy back their
godless
lives by telling their secret. Each had told Silas the exact same
thing—that
the keystone was ingeniously hidden at a precise location inside one of
Paris's ancient churches—the Eglise de Saint-Sulpice.
"Inside a house of the Lord," the Teacher exclaimed. "How they mock
us!"
"As they have for centuries."
The Teacher fell silent, as if letting the triumph of this moment
settle over
him. Finally, he spoke. "You have done a great service to God. We have
waited
centuries for this. You must retrieve the stone for me. Immediately.
Tonight.
You understand the stakes."
Silas knew the stakes were incalculable, and yet what the Teacher was
now
commanding seemed impossible. "But the church, it is a fortress.
Especially at
night. How will I enter?"
With the confident tone of a man of enormous influence, the Teacher
explained
what was to be done.
When Silas hung up the phone, his skin tingled with anticipation.
One hour, he told himself, grateful that the Teacher had given him time
to
carry out the necessary penance before entering a house of God. I must
purge
my soul of today's sins. The sins committed today had been holy in
purpose.
Acts of war against the enemies of God had been committed for
centuries.
Forgiveness was assured.
Even so, Silas knew, absolution required sacrifice.
Pulling his shades, he stripped naked and knelt in the center of his
room.
Looking down, he examined the spiked cilice belt clamped around his
thigh. All
true followers of The Way wore this device—a leather strap, studded
with sharp
metal barbs that cut into the flesh as a perpetual reminder of Christ's
suffering. The pain caused by the device also helped counteract the
desires of
the flesh.
Although Silas already had worn his cilice today longer than the
requisite two
hours, he knew today was no ordinary day. Grasping the buckle, he
cinched it
one notch tighter, wincing as the barbs dug deeper into his flesh.
Exhaling
slowly, he savored the cleansing ritual of his pain.
Pain is good, Silas whispered, repeating the sacred mantra of Father
Josemaría
Escrivá—the Teacher of all Teachers. Although Escrivá had died in 1975,
his
wisdom lived on, his words still whispered by thousands of faithful
servants
around the globe as they knelt on the floor and performed the sacred
practice
known as "corporal mortification."
Silas turned his attention now to a heavy knotted rope coiled neatly on
the
floor beside him. The Discipline. The knots were caked with dried
blood. Eager
for the purifying effects of his own agony, Silas said a quick prayer.
Then,
gripping one end of the rope, he closed his eyes and swung it hard over
his
shoulder, feeling the knots slap against his back. He whipped it over
his
shoulder again, slashing at his flesh. Again and again, he lashed.
Castigo corpus meum.
Finally, he felt the blood begin to flow. jos??????
One mile away, the hulking albino named Silas limped through the front
gate of
the luxurious brownstone residence on Rue La Bruyère. The spiked cilice
belt
that he wore around his thigh cut into his flesh, and yet his soul sang
with
satisfaction of service to the Lord.
Pain is good.
His red eyes scanned the lobby as he entered the residence. Empty. He
climbed
the stairs quietly, not wanting to awaken any of his fellow numeraries.
His
bedroom door was open; locks were forbidden here. He entered, closing
the door
behind him.
The room was spartan—hardwood floors, a pine dresser, a canvas mat in
the
corner that served as his bed. He was a visitor here this week, and yet
for
many years he had been blessed with a similar sanctuary in New York
City.
The Lord has provided me shelter and purpose in my life.
Tonight, at last, Silas felt he had begun to repay his debt. Hurrying
to the
dresser, he found the cell phone hidden in his bottom drawer and placed
a call.
"Yes?" a male voice answered.
"Teacher, I have returned."
"Speak," the voice commanded, sounding pleased to hear from him.
"All four are gone. The three sénéchaux... and the Grand Master
himself."
There was a momentary pause, as if for prayer. "Then I assume you have
the
information?"
"All four concurred. Independently."
"And you believed them?"
"Their agreement was too great for coincidence."
An excited breath. "Excellent. I had feared the brotherhood's
reputation for
secrecy might prevail."
"The prospect of death is strong motivation."
"So, my pupil, tell me what I must know."
Silas knew the information he had gleaned from his victims would come
as a
shock. "Teacher, all four confirmed the existence of the clef de
voûte... the
legendary keystone."
He heard a quick intake of breath over the phone and could feel the
Teacher's
excitement. "The keystone. Exactly as we suspected."
According to lore, the brotherhood had created a map of stone—a clef de
voûte... or keystone—an engraved tablet that revealed the final resting
place
of the brotherhood's greatest secret... information so powerful that
its
protection was the reason for the brotherhood's very existence.
"When we possess the keystone," the Teacher said, "we will be only one
step
away."
"We are closer than you think. The keystone is here in Paris."
"Paris? Incredible. It is almost too easy."
Silas relayed the earlier events of the evening... how all four of his
victims, moments before death, had desperately tried to buy back their
godless
lives by telling their secret. Each had told Silas the exact same
thing—that
the keystone was ingeniously hidden at a precise location inside one of
Paris's ancient churches—the Eglise de Saint-Sulpice.
"Inside a house of the Lord," the Teacher exclaimed. "How they mock
us!"
"As they have for centuries."
The Teacher fell silent, as if letting the triumph of this moment
settle over
him. Finally, he spoke. "You have done a great service to God. We have
waited
centuries for this. You must retrieve the stone for me. Immediately.
Tonight.
You understand the stakes."
Silas knew the stakes were incalculable, and yet what the Teacher was
now
commanding seemed impossible. "But the church, it is a fortress.
Especially at
night. How will I enter?"
With the confident tone of a man of enormous influence, the Teacher
explained
what was to be done.
When Silas hung up the phone, his skin tingled with anticipation.
One hour, he told himself, grateful that the Teacher had given him time
to
carry out the necessary penance before entering a house of God. I must
purge
my soul of today's sins. The sins committed today had been holy in
purpose.
Acts of war against the enemies of God had been committed for
centuries.
Forgiveness was assured.
Even so, Silas knew, absolution required sacrifice.
Pulling his shades, he stripped naked and knelt in the center of his
room.
Looking down, he examined the spiked cilice belt clamped around his
thigh. All
true followers of The Way wore this device—a leather strap, studded
with sharp
metal barbs that cut into the flesh as a perpetual reminder of Christ's
suffering. The pain caused by the device also helped counteract the
desires of
the flesh.
Although Silas already had worn his cilice today longer than the
requisite two
hours, he knew today was no ordinary day. Grasping the buckle, he
cinched it
one notch tighter, wincing as the barbs dug deeper into his flesh.
Exhaling
slowly, he savored the cleansing ritual of his pain.
Pain is good, Silas whispered, repeating the sacred mantra of Father
Josemaría
Escrivá—the Teacher of all Teachers. Although Escrivá had died in 1975,
his
wisdom lived on, his words still whispered by thousands of faithful
servants
around the globe as they knelt on the floor and performed the sacred
practice
known as "corporal mortification."
Silas turned his attention now to a heavy knotted rope coiled neatly on
the
floor beside him. The Discipline. The knots were caked with dried
blood. Eager
for the purifying effects of his own agony, Silas said a quick prayer.
Then,
gripping one end of the rope, he closed his eyes and swung it hard over
his
shoulder, feeling the knots slap against his back. He whipped it over
his
shoulder again, slashing at his flesh. Again and again, he lashed.
Castigo corpus meum.
Finally, he felt the blood begin to flow.
jos?????? 
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Murat Sabanovic
- Posts: 5527
- Joined: 18/01/2005 20:55
#17
ma tebi djuro izgleda da je koncentracija na "visokom" nivou bila citajuci kod da vincijaFIKUS2 wrote:e halo krkane baa halo, ne čitam ti ja knjige bapitt wrote:Evo sta se desi kad neko procita da vinchi code i A & D i sve shvati ozbiljno
pa gdje djuro nadje u da brownovoj romanu broj 23 , piramidu ili osnivaca ove sekte? ali ti si naravno to uocio.svaka ti cast
pa kad uoci ovo gore , cudi me kako ne uoci sveti gral i tajne poruke
ostavljene od leonarda o kojima pisac pise.
moj djuro...BJAZI
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Himera
- Posts: 496
- Joined: 17/01/2005 19:34
#18
Murat Sabanovic wrote:ma tebi djuro izgleda da je koncentracija na "visokom" nivou bila citajuci kod da vincijaFIKUS2 wrote:e halo krkane baa halo, ne čitam ti ja knjige bapitt wrote:Evo sta se desi kad neko procita da vinchi code i A & D i sve shvati ozbiljno
pa gdje djuro nadje u da brownovoj romanu broj 23 , piramidu ili osnivaca ove sekte? ali ti si naravno to uocio.svaka ti cast
pa kad uoci ovo gore , cudi me kako ne uoci sveti gral i tajne poruke
ostavljene od leonarda o kojima pisac pise.
moj djuro...BJAZI
Murate kad već hoš da vjeruješ iluminati su se skontali prije još u vrijeme Galilea kako to Brown objasni u A&D
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rajvosa
- Posts: 738
- Joined: 06/10/2002 00:00
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Murat Sabanovic
- Posts: 5527
- Joined: 18/01/2005 20:55
#21
jebo te,ko govori o vjerorovanju .nego o illuminatimma sam 1 put cuo prije 10 godina. po misljenju jednog francuz ona je osnovana bas kao sto brown tvrdi ,za vrijeme galilea u 15 stoljecu.ali tacnost toga je upitna.pitt wrote:A A&D je ko gospel znachi......treba vjerovatiMurate kad već hoš da vjeruješ iluminati su se skontali prije još u vrijeme Galilea kako to Brown objasni u A&D
medjutim danas se ona u javnosti vodi od 1776 godine.
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Thanatos
- Posts: 228
- Joined: 12/08/2005 04:20
- Location: Zagreb
- Contact:
#22 Re: iluminati i skrivene poruke
Murat Sabanovic wrote:illuminati
o ovoj sekti se malo zna a svaki dan se susrecemo s njenm s krivenim porukama.
ovu sektu osniva adam weishaupt 1776 iz ingolstadta,njemacka.on nudi svojim sljedbenicima "svjetlost razuma", sto znaci usavrsavanje prirodnog razuma .po illuminatima, covjek je bog.
simboli illuminata su oko u piramidi i po njiihovom vjerovanju magicni broj 23 .njegova sekta dobija zabranu i adam nestaje 1785 god. njegov datum smrti je nepoznat,ali interesantno je da ima dosta slicnosti sa g.washingotnom i nije nemoguce da je 1789 bio kandidat za predsjenika usa.odnosno da je on g.washington.naima na 1dolar novcanici nalazi se 1predsjenik amerike i piramida . interesantna je piramida na kojoj je ispisano rimskim brojevim "MDCCLXXV" sto je jednako 1776-oj...
godini osnivanja ove sekte.ista tako na 1 dolar novcanic se moze odmah ispod piramide na latinskom procitati "Novus ordo seclorum", sto znaci "New World Order".
po expertima,ako je on 1 predsjednik usa bio, onda bi neke stvari bile odgonetnute ,kao smrt americkih predsjenika ili rodbinska veza vecine njih .
da se vratim broju 23 i piramidi
kada podijelimo 2/3 dobijemo 0,666
slovo "W"je 23 po redoslijedu engleske , a sto je jos zanimljivije 6.po redoslijedu jevrjske abecede.tako kada ukucamo na kompjuter www(World Wide Web) ustvari ukucamo 666.pomalo smijesno ,ali nije nemoguce.
dalje simbole iluminata susrecemo na aol-u (piramida s okom), a aol chatrooms mogu samo primti 23 "chatasa".
piramida se nalazi cigarama camel
obelisk na place de la concorde u parizu je 23 m i na vrhu piramida
cezar ubijen sa 23 uboda.
pa i 11.09.2001 (11+9+2+1=23)
ima jos datuma igdje se sabiranjem dolazi do"23"
naime 23- eg dana u mjesecu njemacka 1948 postaje republika
a 23 se i ujedinjuje.
pomalo cudno ,da je 1euro kovanica 23 milimetra.
ovo sam pokupio sa raznoraznih internet stranicama...
supljak ili bi moglo imati malo istine?
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lutkica_lutkica
- Posts: 108
- Joined: 06/06/2004 17:37
- Location: Sarajevo
#23
pa i da vincijev kod je napisan sa ciljem da se cijela prica oko jevreja i iluminata prikaze kao fikcija---------jer je istina previse izlazila na vidjelo------sada je logicno da kad god neko cuje ikakav podatak sa tom asocijacijom pomisli-----ah bajka----eno previse ga zanosi beletristika-----da vincijev kod je ciljno planetarno popularan... ko shvata sta zelim reci : procitati "Protokoli sionskih mudraca"
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lutkica_lutkica
- Posts: 108
- Joined: 06/06/2004 17:37
- Location: Sarajevo
#24
michael jordan ---------- 23