THE TEMPLE & THE LODGE PART 9

\\\THE TEMPLE AND THE LODGE
MICHAEL BAIGENT AND RICHARD LEIGH



TWO
Scotland   and   a   Hidden   Tradition


Rosslyn   and   the   Gypsies

  The  Sinclair s  were  not  only  hereditary  patrons  and  protectors  of masonry.  They  had  also,  during  the  sixteenth  century,  established themselves  as  patrons  and  protector s  of   gypsies,  who  ‘ enjoyed  the favour   and  protection  of   the  Roslin  f amily  as  late  as  the  first  quarter   of the  seventeenth  century’ . 15 Legislation  against  gypsies  in  Scotland  had always  been  har sh,  and  during  the  Reformation  it  became  more  so.  In 1574,  the  Scottish  Parliament  decreed  that  all  gypsies  apprehended should  be  whipped,  branded  on  the  cheek  or   ear ,  or   have  the  right  ear cut off . 16 Further , even more severe, legislation was introduced in 1616. By  the  end  of   the  seventeenth  century,  gypsies  were  being  deported  en masse  to Virginia, Barbados and Jamaica.

 In  1559,  however ,  Sir   William  Sinclair   was  Lord  Justice  General  of Scotland  under   Queen  Mary.  Although  his  ef f or ts  do  not  appear   to  have been  notably  successful,  he  never theless  opposed  the  measures  then being  implemented  against  gypsies.  Availing  himself   of   his  judicial status, he is said to have intervened on one critical occasion and saved a particular   gypsy  from  the  scaffold.  From  then  on,  the  gypsies  became annual  visitor s  to  the  Sinclair   estates,  which  of f ered  them  a  welcome refuge.  Every  May  and  June,  they  would  congregate  in  the  fields  below Rosslyn  Castle,  where  they  would  per form  their   plays.  Sir   William Sinclair   is  even  said  to  have  made  available  two  towers  of   the  castle  for them  to  occupy  dur ing  their   stay  in  the  vicinity.  These  tower s  came  to be  known  as  ‘ Robin  Hood’   and  ‘ Little  John’ . 17 The  designations  are significant,  f or   Robin  Hood  and  Little   John  was  a  favour ite  May- tide  play performed  by  English  and  Scottish  gypsies  at  the  time;  and  like  the gypsies,  it  had  been  officially  banned,  the  Scottish  Parliament  decreeing on  10  June  1555  that  ‘ no  one  should  act  as  Robin  Hood,  Little  John, Abbot of  Unreason or  Queen of  May’ . 18

  Gypsies  had,  of   course,  long  been  credited  with  ‘ second  sight’ . Towards  the  beginning  of   the  seventeenth  century,  this  faculty  became increasingly  attr ibuted  to  Freemasons  as  well.  One  of   the  earliest  and most  famous  references  to  Freemasonry  as  we  know  it  today  appears  in a 1638 poem by Henry Adamson of  Perth, called ‘ The Muses Threnodie’ .

This poem contains the of t- quoted lines:
For  we be brethren of  the Rosie Crosse;
We have the Mason word, and second sight,
Things f or  to come we can f oretell ar ight . . . 19

  This,  certainly,  is  the  first  known  suggestion  that  Freemasons  were endowed with ‘ occult powers’ . The power s in question are unmistakably gypsy;  and  the  common denominator  between  gypsies  and Freemasonry was Sir  William Sinclair .

  More  important  for   the  evolution  and  development  of   Freemasonry, however ,  is  the  fact  that  the  gypsies  came  to  Rosslyn  to  perform  plays. Indeed,  one  prominent  author ity  on  the  subject  has  stated  that  the troupes  received  every  May  and  June  at  Rosslyn  were  not  gypsies  at  all, but  ‛in  reality  a  company  of   strolling  players’ . 10 Whether   they  were gypsies  or   not,  the  f act  remains  that  they  regularly  performed,  at  thez home of  Scotland’ s Chief  Justice, a play banned by law.

 Why  should  it  have  been  banned?  In  par t,  of   course,  because  the subject  matter   itself   —  the  endorsement  of   a  legendary  ‛outlaw’   — would  have  been  seen  as  ‘ subversive’ .  In  part,  because  the  austere Calvinist  Protestantism  then  being  promulgated  in  Scotland  by  John Knox  regarded  —  as  Cromwell’ s  Puritans  were  to  do  in  England  a century later  — all theatre as ‘ immoral’ . But the primary reason becomes evident  from  the  phraseology  of   the  decree  whereby  the  play  was banned.  ‘ No  one  should  act  as  Robin  Hood,  Little  John,  Abbot  of Unreason  or   Queen  of   May.’   The  ‘ Abbot  of   Unreason’   is,  naturally,  the Friar   Tuck  of   legend;  the  ‘ Queen  of   May’   is  the  figure  more  generally known  as  Maid  Mar ion.  But  both  of   these  figures  were  originally  very different  f rom  what  later   traditions  have  made  of   them.  In  fact,  Robin Hood,  all  through  the  Middle  Ages  in  England  and  Scotland,  was  only secondarily  the  ‘ outlaw’   of   subsequent  story.  Pre- eminently,  he  was  a species  of   ‛f airy’   derived  ultimately  from  the  old  Celtic  and  Saxon fertility  god  or   vegetation  deity,  the  so- called  ‘ Green  Man’ ,  while  in popular   f olklore  Robin  Hood  was  interchangeable  with  ‘ Green  Robin’ , ‘ Robin  of   the  Greenwood’ ,  ‘ Robin  Goodf ellow’ ,  Shakespeare’ s  Puck  in  A Midsummer  Nig ht’ s  Dream,  who,  at  the  summer   solstice,  presides  over fertility, sexuality and nuptials.

  The Robin Hood legend provided, in effect, a handy guise whereby the fertility  r ites  of   ancient  paganism  were  introduced  back  into  the  bosom of   nominally  Christian  Britain.  Every  May  Day,  there  would  be  a  festival of   unabashedly  pagan  or igin.  Rituals  would  be  enacted  around  the  ‘ May Pole’ , traditional symbol of  the archaic goddess of  sexuality and f er tility. On  Midsummer ’ s  Day,  every  village  virgin  would  become, metaphorically, Queen of  the May. Many of  them would be ushered into the  ‘ greenwood’   where  they  would  undergo  their   sexual  initiation  at  the hands  of   a  youth  playing  the  role  of   Robin  Hood  or   Robin  Goodfellow, while  Friar   Tuck,  the  ‘ Abbot  of   Unreason’ ,  would  of f iciate,  ‘ blessing’   the mating  couples  in  a  parody  of   formal  nuptials.  By  virtue  of   such  roleplaying,  the  borders  separating  dramatic  masque  and  fertility  ritual would  effectively  dissolve.  May  Day  would  be,  in  fact,  a  day  of   orgy. Nine  months  later ,  it  would  produce,  throughout  the  British  Isles,  its annual  crop  of   children.  It  was  in  these  ‘ sons  of   Robin’   that  many  such family names as Robinson and Robertson first originated.

 In  the  context  of   the  time,  then,  a  play  entitled  Robin  Hood  and  Little John  —  a  play  enacted  every  May  and  June  at  Rosslyn,  whether   by gypsies  or   by  a  troupe  of   strolling  performers,  which  involved  an orgiastic  ‛Abbot  of   Unreason’   and  a  Venus- like  Queen  of   the  May  — would  not  have  been  conventional  drama  as  we  conceive  it  today.  On the contrary, it would have been a pagan fertility rite, or  a dramatisation of   a  pagan  fertility  rite,  which  Christians  of   every  stamp  —  whether Calvinist  or   Roman  Catholic  —  could  only  have  found  scandalous  and sinful.  But  this  was  what  ‘ theatre’   usually  meant  or   implied   for   the  rural populace  of   the  age.  It  is  hardly  surprising,  therefore,  that  the  sombre, self - righteous  Puritan  legislators  of   sixteenth- century  Scotland  and seventeenth- century  England  should  have  waxed  sanctimonious  about such ‘ theatre’ .

  What  is  significant  is  that  the  Sinclair s  not  only  sanctioned,  but welcomed  and  protected,  these  practices.  And  Rosslyn  not  only provided  an  ideal  milieu  for   them.  It  might,  to  all  intents  and  purposes, have  been  designed  specifically  f or   them.  The  dominant  theme  of   the chapel,  under lying  all  the  elaborate  Christian  over lay,  is  unabashedly pagan  and  Celtic.  The  figure  that  occurs  most  frequently  is  the  ‘ Green Man’  — a human head with vines issuing from its mouth and sometimes its  ears,  then  spreading  wildly,  in  tangled  proliferation,  over   the  walls. Indeed,  the  ‘ Green Man’   is  everywhere  in  Rosslyn  Chapel,  peer ing  out  at every  turn  from  liana- like  tendrils  which  he  himself   engenders.  His  head —  for   there  is  never   a  body  attached  to  it  –  is  like  the  heads  the Templars  were  accused  of   wor shipping,  or   the  severed  heads  of   ancient Celtic  tradition,  both  of   which  were  talismans  of   fertility.  Rosslyn  thus invokes  both  the  Templars  and  the  archaic  Celtic  kingdom  of   Scotland which Bruce sought to restore.

  At  Rosslyn  Chapel,  a  number   of   critical  elements,  in  some  cases  from very  diver se  sources,  converged.  Residues  and  deep- rooted  traditions f rom  the past were brought  together  with  current,  at  times precociously innovative,  developments.  There  must,  for   example,  have  been  a productive  interaction  between  the  Sinclairs,  the  ‘ operative’ stonemasons who built under  their  auspices and the gypsies or  travelling players  who  performed  under   their   protection.  The  fusion  of   such elements was a crucial step in the eventual coalescence of  Freemasonry. But  other   elements  —  the  old  chivalr ic  Templar   legacy,  for   instance  — had  yet  to  be  re- assimilated.  And  certain  supremely  important  new elements had still to be added.

  For   the  rural  populace,  as  we  have  seen,  the  idea  of   ‘ theatre’   was represented  by  such  works  as  Robin  Hood  and  Little   John.  In  the  urban centres  of   Britain,  however ,  there  was  another   kind  of   theatre,  more familiar   to  us  today  and  more  readily  accorded  a  legitimate  place  in cultural  tradition.  This  was  the  miracle  or   mystery  play,  which  first began  as  early  as  the  twelf th  century  and  attained  its  fullest development  during  the  f ourteenth  and  fifteenth.  Ultimately  der iving from  the  Mass  and  liturgical  sources,  the  miracle  play  was  a combination  of   drama  and  pageant.  Most  miracle  plays  were  embedded in  sequences  or   cycles,  four   of   which  survive  today  —  those  of   York, Chester ,  Wakefield  and  one  other   sometimes  ascr ibed  to  Coventry. Moving  from  the  precincts  of   the  church  out  into  the  market  place, these  cycles  sought,  on  feast  days,  to  involve  the  entire  populace  of   a town  in  a  re- creation  and  reenactment  of   biblical  mater ial.  Episodes from scr ipture — the murder  of  Abel, f or  example, Noah and his ark, the Nativity  and  even  the  Crucif ixion  —  would  be  por trayed  in  simplified, easily  digested  dramatic  form.  God  and  Jesus  would  both  often  appear ‛on stage’ . Evil — generally in the f orm of  a clownish Devil or  buffoon — would be duly castigated. Sometimes topical issues would be raised and contemporary  sources  of   grievance  satirised.  Performances  would  be staged  on  large  wagons,  like  modern  carnival  floats,  located  at  various points  around  the  town,  and  spectators  would  move  from  one  point  to the  next  as  though  through  the  stations  of   the  cross  in  church.  The performers  would  be  the  members  of   the  various  guilds  —  the  Tanners, Plasterers,  Shipwrights,  Bookbinders,  Goldsmiths,  Mercer s,  Butcher s, Ostler s  —  and  each  guild  would  be  responsible  for   depicting  a  specific biblical episode.

  In an important article published in 1974, the Reverend Neville Barker Cryer   has  demonstrated  how  the  miracle  plays  were  a  major   source  of the  rituals  later   to  be  found  in  Freemasonry,  providing  material  which would  otherwise  have  been  amorphous  with  a  dramatic  structure  and form. 21 Certainly the guilds of  ‘ operative’  stonemasons were particularly active  in  the  staging  of   miracle  plays.  Because  much  of   their   work  had consisted  of   building  churches,  abbeys  and  other   religious  houses,  they enjoyed  a  uniquely  close  relationship  with  the  ecclesiastical establishment.  This  made  them  more  familiar   than  other   guilds  with liturgical  techniques  of   dramatisation,  as  well  as  with  certain  bodies  of biblical material. 22 And  as  the  Reformation  curtailed  the  programme  of religious  building,  the  guilds  of   stonemasons  had  more  opportunity  to develop  their   skills  in  ritual  drama,  gradually  evolving  their   own  rites which became ever  more divorced f rom taboo Catholicism.

  As  we  have  noted,  each  guild  in  a  town  was  traditionally  responsible for   dramatising  specific  bodies  of   biblical  mater ial,  specific  incidents and  episodes  from  scripture.  In  some  instances,  the  assignment  of particular   subject  matter   to  a  particular   guild  would  have  been  more  or less  arbitrary.  It  would  have  been  difficult,  for   example,  to  f ind something  in  scripture  of   unique  relevance  to,  say,  the  glovemakers  or , as  they  were  called,  Gaunters.  On  the  other   hand,  there  were   certain biblical  narratives  of   unique  relevance  to  the  stonemasons.  Moreover , their   proximity  to  the  ecclesiastical  establishment  would  have  enabled them  to  choose,  and  eventually  to  monopolise,  the  nar ratives  they wished  to  perform.  The  Reverend  Cryer   suggests  that  something  of   this sort was indeed the case. Masonic guilds would gradually have arrogated to  themselves  the  prerogative  of   dramatising  material  of   particular pertinence  to  their   own  highly  specialised  work  —  such  as  the  building of   Solomon’ s  Temple. 23 And  thus  the  central  mythic  drama  of   later Freemasonry  —  the  murder   of   Hiram  Abiff   —  would  first  have  been enacted by stonemasons in a miracle play. 24


9
Freemasonry :   Geometry   of   the Sacred


  Freemasonry is itself  profoundly uncer tain of  its own or igins. In the four centuries  or   so  of   its  formal  existence,  it  has  endeavoured,  sometimes desperately,  to  establish  a  pedigree.  Masonic  writers  have  filled numerous  books  with  ef f or ts  to  chronicle  the  history  of   their   craft. Some  of   these  efforts  have  been  not  just  spurious,  but,  on  occasion, positively  comical  in  their   extravagance,  naivete  and  wishful  thinking. Other s  have  not  just  been  plausible,  but  have  opened  important  new doors  of   historical  research.  In  the  end,  however ,  most  such  research has  culminated  in  uncertainty;  and,  not  inf requently,  it  has  provoked more  questions  than  it  answered.  One  problem  is  that  Freemasons themselves  have  too  often  sought  a  single  coherent  heritage,  a  single unaltered  skein  of   tradition  extending  from  pre- Christian  times  to  the present day.  In  fact, Freemasonry  is  rather   like  a ball of   twine  ensnarled by  a  playful  kitten.  It  consists  of   numerous  skeins,  which  must  be  disentangled before its various origins can be discerned.

  Masonic  legend  argues  that  Freemasonry,  at  least  in  England, descends  from  the  Saxon  King  Athelstan.  Athelstan’ s  son  is  said  to  have joined  an  already  existing  fraternity  of   masons,  become  an  enthusiastic mason himself  and, by dint of  his status, obtained a ‘ free charter ’  for  his brethren.  As  a  result  of   this  royal  recognition,  a  masonic  conclave  is supposed  to  have  been  convened  at  York  and  the  regulations  drafted which f ormed the basis of  English Freemasonry.

  Subsequent  Masonic  histor ians  have  exhaustively  investigated  this account.  The  consensus  is  that  little  or   no  evidence  exists  to  support  it. But  even  if   it  were  true,  it  would  still  leave  the  most  important questions  unanswered.  Where  did  the  masons  allegedly  patronised  by Athelstan  and  his  son  come  from?  Where  did  they  learn  their   craft? What was so special about it? Why should it have commanded from the throne the protection it reportedly did?

  Certain  Masonic  writers  have  sought  to  answer   such  questions  by invoking  the  so- called  ‘ Comacine  Masons’ .  According  to  these  writers, there  existed,  during  the  latter   days  of   the  Roman  Empire,  a  college  of architects  initiated  into  what  would  later   be  called  Masonic  mysteries. When  Rome  fell,  the  college,  based  at  Lake  Como,  is  said  to  have escaped  and  quietly  to  have  perpetuated  its  teachings  through successive generations; its adepts, during the Dark Ages, are said to have found  their   way  to  various  centres  across  Europe,  including  Athelstan’ s court.

  Neither   of   these  two  accounts  is  altogether   implausible.  Some  sort  of building  programme  does  appear   to  have  been  pursued  during Athelstan’ s  reign,  to  which  York  bears  testimony.  It  was  perhaps  the most  ambitious  programme  of   its  sort  in  Europe  at  the  time,  and  may well  have  involved  some  new,  or   newly  rediscovered,  technical  or technological  expertise.  Moreover ,  early  Bibles  have  been  found,  dating from Saxon England, which depict God in the characteristically Masonic role  of   architect.  And  there  is  indeed  some  evidence  that  some  sort  of architectural  college  did  exist  on  an  island  in  Lake  Como  during  the latter   days  of   the  Roman  Empire.  It  is  perfectly  possible  that  some  of this  college’ s  teachings  were  preserved  and  later   disseminated  across Western Europe.

  But  neither   Athelstan  and  his  son,  nor   the  Comacine Masons,  serve  to account  for   one  of   the  most  salient  aspects  of   later   Freemasonry  —  the fact  that  it  contains  a  major   skein  of   Judaic  tradition  filtered  through Islam.  The  corpus  of   legends  central  to  Freemasonry  —  including,  of course, the building of  Solomon’ s Temple — derives ultimately from Old Testament  mater ial,  both  canonical  and  apocryphal,  as  well  as  from Judaic  and  Islamic  commentaries  upon  it.  It  is  worth  looking  at  the most  important  of   these  legends  —  the  murder   of   Hiram  Abiff   —  in some detail.

  The  Hiram  story  is  rooted  in  the  context  of   the  Old  Testament.  It figures in two books, I Kings and II Chronicles. According to I Kings V: 1 —6:
Hiram  the  king  of   Tyre  sent  an  embassy  to  Solomon,
having learnt that he had been anointed king in succession
to  his  f ather   and  because  Hiram  had  always  been  a  f r iend
of   David.  And  Solomon  sent  this  message  to  Hiram  .  .  .  ‘ I
theref ore plan to build a temple . . . so now have cedar s of
Lebanon cut down for  me . . .’1

  There then follows a detailed account of  the construction of  the Temple by  both  Solomon’s  builder s  and  Hiram’s.  The  levy  of   manpower   raised for   the  project  is  said  to  be  in  the  charge  of   one  Adoniram  —  a  variant spelling,  it  would  appear ,  of   the  name  of   Hiram  himself .  After   the Temple  itself   is  f inished,  the  Israelite  monarch  wishes  to  adorn  it  with two  great  bronze  pillar s  and  other   embellishments.  Accordingly,  in  I Kings VII: 13—15:
King  Solomon  sent  for   Hiram  of   Tyre;  he  was  the  son  of   a
widow  of   the  tr ibe  of   Naphtali  but  his  f ather   had  been  a
Tyr ian,  a  bronzeworker .  He  came  to  King  Solomon  and  did
all this work f or  him: He cast two bronze pillars . . .

In II Chronicles II: 3—14 there is a slightly different account:
Solomon  then  despatched  this  message  to  Huram  king  of
Tyre,  .  .  .  ‘ I  am  now  building  a  house  f or   the  name  of
Yahweh my God . . . So send me a man skilled in the use of
gold,  silver ,  bronze,  iron,  scar let,  cr imson,  violet,  and  the
ar t of  engraving too; he is to work with my skilled mean . .
.’   .  .  .  Huram  king  of   Tyre  replied  .  .  .  ‘ I  am  sending  you  a
skilled  craftsman,  Huramabi,  the  son  of   a  Danite  woman
by  a  Tyrian  father .  He  is  skilled  in  the  use  of   gold,  silver ,
bronze, iron, stone, wood . . . in engraving of  all kinds, and
in the execution of  any design . . .’

  In  its  treatment  of   the  Temple’s  master   builder ,  the  Old  Testament  is cursory  enough.  But  Freemasonry  —  drawing  on  other   sources  and/or inventing  some  of   its  own  —  –  elaborates  on  the  meagre  details  and develops  them  into  what,  in  the  framework  of   a  conventional  organised religion,  would  constitute  a  full- f ledged  and  self - contained  theology. The  story,  when  it  appears  in  its  final  form,  contains  small  variations  in its  particular s,  similar   to  the  variations  in  the  Gospels;  but  its  general tenor  remains consistent from lodge to lodge, rite to rite and age to age.

  The  protagonist  of   the  legend  is  usually  known  as  Hiram  Abiff   or , probably  more  accurately,  Adoniram.  ‘ Adoniram’   is  manifestly  derived from  ‘ Adonai’ ,  the  Hebrew  word  for   ‘ Lord’ ,  in  much  the  same  way  that ‘ Kaiser ’   and  ‘ Czar ’   are  derived  from  ‘ Caesar ’ .  The  master   builder   would thus  have  been  ‘ Lord  Hiram’   —  though  it  has  also  been  suggested  that ‘ Hiram’   was  not  a  proper   name  at  all,  but  a  title,  perhaps  denoting  the king  or   someone  connected  with  the  royal  house.  ‘ Abiff ’   is  a  derivation from  the  word  for   ‘ f ather ’ .  ‘ Hiram  Abiff ’   might  thus  be  the  king  himself , the symbolic father  of  his people, or  he might be the king’ s father  — the ex- king  or   ‘ retired’   king,  who  might  have  abdicated  after   a  stipulated number   of   year s.  In  any  case,  the  point  is  that  he  would  appear   to  be connected  by  blood  with  the  royal  house  of   Phoenician  Tyre,  and  is obviously  a  ‘ master ’   ver sed  in  the  secrets  of   architecture  —  the  secrets of   number ,  shape,  measure  and  their   practical  application  through geometry.  And  modern  archaeological  research  confirms  that  Solomon’ s Temple,  as  it  is  descr ibed  in  the  Old  Testament,  bear s  an  unmistakable resemblance  to  the  actual  temples  built  by  the  Phoenicians.  It  is  even possible  to  go  a  step  further .  Tyrian  temples  were  erected  to  the Phoenician  mother   goddess  Astar te  (who,  subjected  to  a  forcible  sex change  by  the  ear ly  Church  Father s,  entered  Christian  tradition  as  the male  demon  Ashtaroth).  In  ancient  Tyre,  Astar te  was  known  by  the sobriquets  ‘ Queen  of   Heaven’   and  ‘ Star   of   the  Sea’   or   ‘ Stella  Mar is’   — formulae  which  were  also,  of   course,  hi- jacked  by  Christianity  and conferred  upon  the  Virgin.  Astar te  was  wor shipped  conventionally  ‘ on the  high  places’ ;  hilltops  and  mountains  —  Mount  Hermon,  for   example —  abounded  with  her   shr ines.  And  whatever   his  nominal  allegiance  to the God of  Israel, Solomon was one of  her  wor shipper s. Thus, in I Kings III: 3:
Solomon loved Yahweh: he f ollowed the precepts of  David
his  f ather ,  except  that  he  of f ered  sacr if ice  and  incense  on
the high places.

I Kings XI: 4—5 is even more explicit:
When  Solomon  grew  old  his  wives  swayed  his  hear t  to
other   gods;  and  his  hear t  was  not  wholly  with  Yahweh  his
God  as  his  f ather   David’ s  had  been.  Solomon  became  a
f ollower  of  Astar te, the goddess of  the Sidonians . . .
Indeed, the f amous ‘ Song of  Solomon’  itself  is a hymn to Astarte, and an
invocation of  her :

 Come from Lebanon, my promised br ide,
come from Lebanon, come on your  way.
Lower  your  gaze, from the heights of  Amana,
from the crests of  Senir  and Hermon. 2

  All of  which  raises questions  about  Solomon’ s Temple,  constructed by  a Phoenician master  builder . Was it indeed dedicated to the God of  Israel, or  was it dedicated to Astarte? In any case, Hiram, adept of  architecture, is brought by Solomon from Tyre  to  preside  over   the  building  of   the  Temple  —  so  that  ‘ Solomon’ s Temple’   is  ultimately,  strictly  speaking,  ‘ Hiram’ s  Temple’ .  In  reality,  of course, the immense manpower  involved in so ambitious an undertaking would  have  consisted  primarily,  if   not  exclusively,  of   slave  labour .  In Masonic  r itual  and  tradition,  however ,  at  least  some  of   the  builder s  are depicted  as  free  men,  or   free  masons,  presumably  Tyrian  professionals who  are  paid  f or   their   work.  They  are  organised  into  three  grades  or degrees  —  apprentices,  fellows  and  master s.  Because  they  are  so numerous,  Hiram  cannot  possibly  know  all  of   them  personally.  In consequence,  each  grade  or   degree  is  given  its  own  word.  Apprentices are  given  the  word  ‘ Boaz’ ,  after   one  of   the  two  immense  brass  pillars  or columns  suppor ting  the  Temple’ s  porch.  Fellows  are  given  the  word ‘ Jachin’ ,  af ter   the  second  pillar   or   column.  Master s  are  given,  at  least initially,  the  name  ‘ Jehovah’ .  Each  of   these  three  words  is  also accompanied  by  a  particular   ‘ sign’ ,  or   placement  of   the  hands,  and  a particular  ‘ grip’ , or  handshake. When wages are distributed, each worker presents  himself   to  Hiram,  gives  the  word,  sign  and  grip  appropriate  to his rank and receives the appropriate payment.

  One  day,  as  Hiram  is  praying  in  the  precincts  of   his  nearly  completed edifice,  he  is  accosted  by  three  villains  —  f ellows  according  to  some accounts,  apprentices  according  to  others  —  who  hope  to  obtain  the secrets  of   a  superior   degree  not  yet  their   due.  Hiram  having  entered through  the  western  door ,  the  villains  block  his  exit  and  demand  from him  the  secret  word,  sign  and  gr ip  appropr iate  to  a  master .  When  he refuses to divulge the infzormation they desire, they attack him.

  Accounts  vary  as  to  which  blow  he  receives  at  which  door ,  as  well  as which implement inflicts which wound. For  our  purposes, it is sufficient that  he  receives  three  blows.  He  is  struck  on  the  head  with  a  maul  or   a hammer .  He  is  hit  with  a  level  on  one  temple  and  with  a  plumb  on  the other .  Historically,  accounts  vary  also  as  to  the  sequence  of   these injuries — as to which inaugurates the assault and which constitutes the coup  de   gzrace .  The  first  wound  is  received  at  either   the  nor th  or   the south  door .  Trailing  blood,  which  leaves  a  distinctive  pattern  on  the floor ,  Hiram  stagger s  f rom  exit  to  exit,  receiving  an  additional  blow  at each.  In  all  accounts,  he  dies  at  the  east  door .  This,  in  a  modern  lodge, is  where  the  Master   stands  to  of f iciate.  It  is  also,  of   cour se,  where  the altar  of  a church is always placed.

  Mortified  by  what  they  have  done,  the  three  villains  proceed  to conceal the Master ’ s body. According to most accounts, it is hidden on a nearby  mountainside,  buried  under   loose  ear th.  A  sprig  of   acacia  —  the sacred plant in Freemasonry — is uprooted f rom an adjacent clump and thrust  into  the  grave  so  as  to  make  the  soil  look  undisturbed.  But  seven days  later ,  when  nine  of   Hiram’ s  subordinate  masters  are  searching  for him, one of  them, climbing the mountainside and seeking a handhold to pull  himself   upwards,  seizes  the  sprig  of   acacia,  which  comes  away  in his  gr ip.  This,  of   cour se,  leads  to  the  discovery  of   the  murdered  man’s body.  Realising  what  has  happened,  and  fearing  that  Hiram  may  have divulged  the  master ’ s  word  before  he  died,  the  nine  masters  resolve  to change  it.  The  new  word,  they  agree,  will  consist  of   whatever   any  of them  should  chance  to  utter   as  they  disinter   the  corpse.  When  Hiram’s hand is clasped by the fingers and the wrist, the putrefying skin slips off like  a  glove.  One  of   the  master s  exclaims  ‘ Macbenae!’   (or   any  of   several variants  thereof ),  which,  in  some  unspecified  language,  is  said  to  mean ‘ The  flesh  falls  from  the  bone’ ,  or   ‘ The  corpse  is  rotten’ ,  or   simply  ‘ The zdeath  of   a  builder ’ .  This  becomes  the  new  master ’ s  word.  Subsequently, zthe  three  villains  are  discovered  and  punished.  Hiram’ s  body,  exhumed from  the  mountainside,  is  reinterred  with  great  ceremony  in  the precincts  of   the  Temple,  all  the  master s  wear ing  aprons  and  gloves  of white  hide  to  show  that  none  of   them  has  stained  his  hands  with  the dead man’ s blood. 3

  As  we  have  said,  over   the  last  250  year s  alternative  versions  of   the story  have  var ied  slightly  in  the  sequence  of   events  or   in  some  of   the specific  details.  There  are  also  variations  in  Solomon’ s  supposed conduct  throughout  the  affair .  Sometimes  his  role  is  heavily emphasised;  sometimes  it  is  played  down.  But  in  their   essentials,  all versions  of   the  legend  conform  to  the  outline  delineated  above.  What lurks  behind  the  narrative  is  another   question,  which  lies  beyond  the confines  of   this  book,  belonging  more  properly  to  studies  in anthropology,  comparative  mythology  and  the  origin  of   religions.  In  the wake  of   Sir   James  Frazer ’ s  pioneer   work  in  The  Golde n  Bough, commentary  has  proliferated.  Some  scholars,  as  well  as  cer tain  Masonic writers,  have  argued  that  the  whole  of   the  Hiram  story  —  like  many other  narratives in ancient myth and, for  that matter , in the Bible too — was  a  deliberate  distortion,  a  veil  intended  to  mask  one  of   the  most archaic  and  widespread  of   r ituals,  that  of   human  sacrifice.  It  was certainly  not  uncommon,  in  the  Middle  East  of   biblical  times,  to consecrate  a  building  with  a  sacred  corpse  —  a  child,  a  virgin,  a  king  or some  other   personage  of   royal  blood,  a  priest  or   a  priestess,  a  builder . Tomb  and  shr ine  were  often  one  and  the  same.  In  later   epochs,  the victim would already be dead, or  would be replaced by an animal; but in the  beginning,  a  human  being  was  often  deliberately  killed,  ritually sacrificed,  in  order   to  sanctify  a  site  with  his  or   her   blood.  The  story  of Abraham and Isaac is only one of  numerous indications that the ancient Israelites  subscribed  to  such  practices.  And  indeed,  residues  of   the tradition  persisted  well  into  Chr istian  times,  with  churches  frequently being  erected  on  the  bur ial  sites  of   saints  —  or   saints  being  buried,  if not  actually  killed,  in  order   to  consecrate  churches.  In  his  novel Hawksmoor,  published  in  1984,  Peter   Ackroyd  depicts  a  series  of   early eighteenth- century  London  churches  being  built  on  sites  of   human sacrifice.  What  some  reader s  and  reviewer s  regarded  as  the  fantasy  of   a horror   story  rests  in  fact  on  a  long- established  principle.  At  the  time  of which Ackroyd is writing, Freemasons were almost certainly privy to this pr inciple, even if  they never  actually implemented it.

  In  any  case,  and  whatever   the  atavistic  residues  concealed  within  it, the core of  the Hiram story is not a latterday fabrication, but a narrative of   very  great  antiquity.  As  we  have  noted,  there  is  little  enough  of   it  in the  Old  Testament  proper ,  but  there  are  elaborations  and  variations among  the  earliest  of   Talmudic  legends  and  Judaic  apocrypha.  Why  it should  become  so  important  later   —  why,  indeed,  Hiram  should  come to  assume  the  proportions  of   a  veritable  Christ figure  —  is,  of   course, another   question.  But  by  the  Middle  Ages,  the  architect  or   builder   of Solomon’ s  Temple  had  already  become  significant  to  the  guilds  of ‘ operative’   stonemasons.  In  1410,  a  manuscript  connected  with  one such  guild  mentions  the  ‘ king’ s  son  of   Tyre’ ,  and  associates  him  with  an ancient science said to have survived the Flood and been transmitted by Pythagoras  and Hermes. 4 A  second,  admittedly  later , manuscript, dating from 1583, cites Hiram and describes him as both the son of  the King of Tyre and a ‘ Master ’ . 5 These written records bear  testimony to what must surely  have  been  a  widespread  and  much  older   tradition.  Such  a tradition  may  account  f or   the  parallels  between  the  King  of   Tyre’ s  son and  Athelstan’ s  —  both  royal  pr inces,  both  reputed  architects,  master builders and patrons of  masons.

  It  is  not  clear   precisely  when  the  Hiram  story  first  became  central  to Freemasonry. Almost cer tainly, however , it contr ibuted in some measure to  the  institution’ s  beginnings.  Looking  back  to  Sir   William  Sinclair ’ s Rosslyn Chapel, and the head of  ‘ the murdered apprentice’ , it is possible to  see  in  his  wound  an  injury  identical  to  the  one  allegedly  inflicted  on Hiram, while the woman’ s head in the chapel is known as ‘ the Widowed Mother ’ . Here,  then,  are motifs  f rom  the  Hiram  story  long  antecedent  to modern Freemasonry.

  According  to  later   Freemasonic  wr iter s,  the  skull- and- crossbones  was long  associated  with  both  the  Templar s  and  with  the  murdered  Master . For   how  long  it  had  in  reality  been  so  remains  unknown.  During  the seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries,  the  skull- and- crossbones  was used as a device to denote Hiram’ s grave — and, by extension, the grave of   any  Master   Mason.  As  we  have  seen,  legend  has  it  that  Bruce,  on exhumation  of   his  grave,  was  said  to  have  been  f ound  buried  with  his leg- bones  crossed  beneath  his  skull.  The  skull- and- crossbones  was  also an  important  part  of   the  regalia  of   the  Freemasonic  degree  known  as ‘ Knight  Templar ’ ,  and  it  figures  prominently  among  the  graves  at Kilmartin  and  elsewhere  in  Scotland,  along  with  other   specifically Masonic emblems.

  In  Freemasonry  today,  the  death  of   Hiram  is  r itually  re- enacted  by every  aspirant  to  the  so- called  Third  Degree,  the  Degree  of   Master Mason.  But  there  is  now  one  crucial  addition:  the  Master   is  resurrected. ‘ To  go  through  the  Third  Degree’   means  to  die  r itually  and  be  reborn. One acts the part of  Hiram; one becomes the Master  and experiences his death;  one  is  then,  according  to  the  phraseology  employed,  ‘ raised’   a Master   Mason.  There  is  an  interesting  echo  of   this  rite  in  an  episode pertaining  to  the  prophet  Elijah  in  I  Kings  XVII:  17—24.  On  a  visit  to Sidon, near  the city gate, Elijah finds a widow gathering firewood and is taken into her  house. During his sojourn with her , her  son — the ‘ son of a  widow’   —  becomes  ill  and  dies.  Elijah  ‘ stretched  himself   on  the  child three  times’ ,  crying  f or   God’ s  succour   —  whereupon  ‘ the  soul  of   the child returned to him again and he revived’ .

  There  is  one  curious  footnote  to  this  survey  of   the  Hiram  story.  Until the  eighteenth  century,  it  was  kept  rigorously  secret  and  seems  to  have been  par t  of   the  arcane  lore  confided  only  to  initiated  brethren.  Around 1737,  however ,  in  France,  paranoia  about  Freemasonry  and  its  secrecy set  in  (and  has  continued  to  the  present  day).  Police  raids  ensued. Certain  individuals  appear   to  have  infiltrated  lodges  in  order   to  report on  the  activities  conducted  there.  A  f ew  Freemasons  defected  or   leaked information.  As  a  result,  there  began  to  appear   the  first  in  an  ongoing ser ies  of   ‘ exposures’ ,  all  of   which  have  proved  signally  anticlimactic. Never theless,  they  cast  the  Hiram  legend  more  or   less  into  public domain, rendered it familiar  to non- Freemasons and divested it of  much of  its portentous mystique.

  In  1851,  the  French  poet  Gérard  de  Nerval,  having  returned  from  a tour   of   what  was  then  an  exotic  Middle  East,  published  a  massive  700-page memoir , Voyage   en Orient.  In  this  opus,  Nerval  not  only  recounted his own exper iences (some of  them semi- fictionalised); he also included travelogue,  commentaries  on  manner s  and  mores,  legends  he  had encountered, folk- tales and stories he had heard. Among the latter , there is  the  fullest,  most  detailed  and  most  evocative  ver sion  of   the  Hiram story  ever   to  appear   in  print,  either   before  or   after .  Nerval  not  only recited  the  basic  narrative,  as  it  is  outlined  above.  He  also  divulged  — for   the  first  time,  to  our   knowledge  —  a  skein  of   eerie  mystical traditions  associated  in  Freemasonry  with  Hiram’ s  background  and pedigree. 6

  What  is  particularly  curious  is  that  Nerval  makes  no  mention  of Freemasonry  whatsoever .  Pretending  that  his  nar rative  is  a  species  of regional  folk- tale,  never   known  in  the  West  before,  he  claims  to  have heard  it,  orally  recited  by  a  Persian  raconteur ,  in  a  Constantinople coffee- house.

  In another  writer , such apparent naivete might be plausible, and there would  be  no  particular   reason  to  query  his  assertions.  But  Nerval  was part  of   a  literary  circle  which  included  Charles  Nodier ,  Charles Baudelaire,  Théophile  Gautier   and  the  young  Victor   Hugo,  all  of   whom were  steeped  in  arcana  and  esoterica.  It  is not  clear  whether  Nerval was himself   a  Freemason.  He  may  not  have  been.  He  may,  in  the  murky subter ranean  wor ld  of   occult  sects  and  secret  societies,  have  had  other allegiances.  But  there  can  be  no  question  whatever   that  he  knew  what he was doing — that he knew his nar rative (even if  he did hear  a version of   it  in  a  Constantinople  coffee- house)  was  not  a  quaint  Middle  Eastern folk- tale,  but  the  central  myth  of   European  Freemasonry.  Why  Nerval chose  to  divulge  it,  and  why  he  divulged  it  in  the  manner   he  did, remains a mystery, rooted in the complex politics of  the mid- nineteenthcentury  French  ‘ occult  revival’ .  But  his  weird,  haunting  and  evocative retelling  of   the  Hiram  legend  is  the  most  complete  and  detailed  version we have, or  are likely ever  to have.