The History of Vampirism
in Acquainted With the Night
Back in 2008, when I started working on a vampire novel, I began paying attention to the hours between dusk and dawn. I tried to look at the world through the eyes of an immortal. Would I miss daylight? Would I try to adapt? Would I plant night-blooming flowers in my garden? Perhaps I’d buy a telescope and study the constellations.
Early in the process, I knew the book would center around Historia Immortalis, an ancient manuscript that details the immortals’ history, along with their secret society, traditions, covenants, and ethics.
Historia Immortalis
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Historia Immortalis, sometimes known as the Book of the Night, is one of the lost Christianities. Written before 200 A.D., the manuscript was considered heretical due to its subject matter: death and resurrection. The book is distinguished by graphic accounts of people rising from the dead.
Although the author is unknown, some theologians believe Historia Immortalis was written by monks known as νυχτοπερπατητής, the Greek phrase for “night walkers”—early astronomers who’d mapped the evening sky. They were been dogged by rumors of blood sacrifice and longevity. Other scholars claim the book was forged by the notorious Carpocratians. However, the majority believed that Lazareth of Bethany penned the manuscript.
In the 4th century, leather-bound papyrus scrolls were discovered in the Gilf Kebir region in southern Egypt. While being transported to a monastery, the scrolls vanished. Many scholars scoffed at their existence. Critics were mystified when a Coptic version of the book appeared in the Alexandria library, however this copy went missing before the great fire.
Interest in the manuscript piqued again when codices were discovered at Nag Hammadi. After the 12th volume was burned by a Bedouin woman, fragments were examined. Some scholars believed they were pages from Historia Immortalis.
During the 8th century, the papyrus scrolls surfaced long enough for Charlemagne’s monks to translated the text into Medieval Latin. All five hundred vellum pages were lavishly embellished (see illustration) with vibrant, sometimes disturbing illustrations. The scrolls were allegedly burned during a fire at the scriptorium in Marmoutier, France. Illustrated copies of the manuscript were adopted by certain sects (see Catharism) in Southern France. These copies were ruthlessly hunted during the Albigensian Crusade and ignited the Inquisition.
In 1982, ten pages of the Latin translation were auctioned at Sotheby’s for 1.5 million pounds. Weeks later, the pages vanished.
Countless copies of the book were destroyed, but a few managed to elude the crusaders. “There’s just something odd about Historia Immortalis,” a collector said. “It won’t stay put. It possesses a type of kinetic energy.”
The book has a disturbing history of its own. During World War II, ten vellum leaves were found in the basement of the Louvre and were taken back to Berlin. A Munich collector bought them. Not long afterward, his only son hanged himself. The pages were sold to an Austrian violinist. Days before her murder, she sold the pages to a South American dictator who couldn’t get rid of them quickly enough. Before he could find a buyer, the pages were stolen. Decades later, they ended up at a Sotheby’s auction.
Most importantly, for mortals, the book serves as an introduction and a guide to the secret world of vampirism. Several chapters describe how immortals are irresistible to humans. They’re rather like cone shells, with brown-and-white patterns that are intricate and beautiful as a mosaic. Conidae are toothed shells. They are hungers, built for survival. They impale their prey and inject it with venom.
“I know what is written in Historia Immortalis,” Father Aeneas said. “It is forbidden for a vampire to love a human. Yet they do, of course, because an immortal’s libido is as powerful as their craving for blood. They freely mate with humans, but it is nearly impossible for them to reproduce. A mortal woman can conceive a child by a vampire, but the pregnancy usually ends in a miscarriage.”
In less than half a percent of cases, a half-vampire baby is carried full term. These rare offspring are called hybrids, and they possess unique traits. They don’t consume blood. They have unusual speed and strength, coupled with an ability to heal rapidly. They have strong immune systems. And they exude a type of olfactory chemical that attracts, then repels. Hybrids cannot form lasting relationships with any human. Most possess a hyperawareness of danger. Some an even read minds. Others can sense when immortals are near—that’s why hybrids often make successful vampire slayers.
Of course, just as in today’s world, the ancient vampires didn’t keep their own rules. Exceptions were made when an immortal fell in love with a well-connected human, and vice versa. If you were in the peerage, if you possessed land or influence, the vamps looked the other way. Greed is a human response to an inhuman dilemma. However, when a high-born vampire romanced a lowly human, the rules were enforced, and the unfortunate lovebirds were ostracized.
Some scholars believe that Historia Immortalis was forged by the notorious Carpocratians, a heretical Gnostic sect. But many others believe the text was written by second-century monks. The language is typical of the era and reads like a Gnostic Gospel.
A Coptic version was translated during Charlemagne’s era. Each vellum page was covered with illustrations and lavish black script, and the script was unique, with upper and lowercase letters. The words were also spaced. This is why the book was called a Carolingian minuscule. It was an illustrated manuscript, a picture book for the illiterate.
Caro saw ten vellum sheets, each one lavishly illustrated. Magenta knights held shields, each one woven with infinity symbols, and below the knights, a dead stag lay with its neck ripped open. Many pages showed graphic, alluring illustrations of sex and vampirism.
She lifted a page, and the dazzling colors seemed to vibrate, washing over the back of her hand. Obsidian, lapis, topaz, amethyst, shot through with gilt. Each page curled at the edges like dried tobacco leaves.
Part of this tome is a treatise about the night—nocturnal animals, moon phases, constellations, and botany. It also contains the vampires’ moral codes. The book’s theme is resurrection. The first line says, “This is the secret Gospel of the night. Whoever finds the correct interpretation of the text will find eternal life.”
In the 8th century, a copy of Historia Immortalis found its way to the Vatican. The Church had always fretted endlessly about heresy, but it also had a means to eliminate it. The Pope objected to the book because it was a chronicle of people who’d achieved eternal life. And God did not intend for man to live eternally without His judgment.
The Albigensian Crusade was launched, and copies of Historia Immortalis were ruthlessly ferreted out and burned—along with their owners. The book was a threat—it had the power to shake Christianity, and humanity itself. Historia Immortalis would eventually ignite the Inquisition.
Centuries later, the book was still causing problems. Collectors longed to own a copy. The Church wanted to burn it. The owner of a London pharmaceutical company hoped to exploit it:
The book was much more than the history of vampirism: It held secrets to longevity and, interestingly enough, methods of destroying the immortals. Mortals were no match for the vampires’ superior physical abilities, not to mention their otherworldly skills such as telepathy and telekinesis. The lot were canny survivalists. For thousands of years,, they’d endured in a symbiotic relationship with humankind. They’d restrained themselves. If they got the upper-hand, humans would be openly slaughtered, and as the earth was depopulated, wide-spread panic would erupt. A polarized society is a weak society. Civilization would disintegrate. The immortals would roost in Buckingham Palace, feeding on animal blood, and humans would go the way of the Neanderthal.
If the tome fell into the wrong hands, it would pit science against religion. Men would lash out against vampires, depriving them of rights, but the battle would inevitably disintegrate into a predictable man-against-man conflict. Some humans would oppose the immortals, and some would offer support—or even breed with them.
Initially the outing of vampirism would cause a social upheaval. The affluent, centuries-old clans would be ostracized. After all, the royals were a bit finicky about bloodlines. However, that would be the least of the vampires’ problems. The wealthy and common alike would go into hiding. While they reorganized, they’d be sought by fringe groups and bounty hunters. Enthusiasts might hunt them for sport.
As Caro’s uncle Nigel once said:
“If you didn’t wish to grow old, if you preferred a short but interesting life, get yourself mixed up with Historia Immortalis. Each cursed page attracted death—ironic for a tomb that celebrated immortality.”
Acquainted With the Night will be published November 29th (Berkley). Piper Maitland is currently working on the sequel, A Requiem for Daylight.
