by Wendy Alec
‘A second Eden,’ Charsoc murmured in wonder. ‘It is expedient for us, master.’
Lucifer walked over to the battlements. His long raven hair blew violently across his face, his ermine cloak flew in the raging tempests at the edge of the Tower.
‘A second Eden.’ He stared far into the distance, over the Eastern plains of Eden to the Hanging Gardens where the two massive trees of Life stood, their fruit glistening gold in the lightning, almost wholly enveloped by swirling white mists. ‘How fortuitous.’ His gaze moved to the north of the two trees where the colossal golden, ruby-encrusted door was embedded into the jacinth walls of the Tower.
‘–but fortuitous for who?’ He stared at the Rubied Door, his expression dark.
‘What does the carpenter gain if he passes my test?’ he whispered, his back to Jether.
‘He secures the right to proclaim the Kingdom of the First Heaven on your planet – no longer a trespasser.’
‘And what of His powers?’
‘If He passes the test, His access to the supernatural powers of the First Heaven is secured. But He will make use of them as one of the Race of Men.’
‘Aha! It is as I presumed – He would entice them with His sorceries,’ Lucifer said as he turned from the battlements. ‘And if He fails?’
‘He suffers the same fate as Adam. He becomes your subject. One of the Race of Men under your control.’ Jether gestured to Lucifer’s sceptre lain on the table. ‘You will be His King.’
Lucifer stared at Michael, a wicked fire in his eyes.
‘I am gratified I attended our little tête-à-tête, Michael. I am surely not disappointed.’ He turned to Jether, asking, ‘And when is our contest to be?’
‘When the Nazarene reaches the age of thirty years, as counted in the Race of Men. In but a few moons, the seal of the seventh stone will be lifted. He will face you as one of the Race of Men,’ Jether replied.
Lucifer nodded, a peculiar smile flickering on his lips.
‘And the terms of the Nazarene’s residency rights,’ Lucifer’s eyes narrowed, ‘on my territory, Earth?’
He walked over to the table and sat back down on his throne.
‘They are laid out in the White Judgements.’ Jether opened the codex.
‘Christos will be known in the following residency document as Jesus of Nazareth – the Nazarene, one of the Race of Men. At the age of thirty, as predetermined by the Race of Men, Yehovah’s protection – the seal of the seventh stone will be lifted. Jesus of Nazareth is bound by Eternal Law to confront the ultimate challenge of obedience as did the first steward of the planet earth, Adam – as one of the Race of Men. The testing must be conducted in exact like manner to that previously encountered by the aforesaid Adam and Eve. A test of obedience. To Yehovah or to yourself as Sovereign of the Race of Men.’
Jether nodded to Gabriel.
‘As ruler of the Race of Men, you may lay before Him three separate temptations of your creation,’ said Gabriel. ‘If He overcomes these temptations, He secures the right to proclaim the kingdom of the First Heaven among the Race of Men.’
Lucifer leaned back, studying Gabriel in enjoyment.
‘If He fails even one of your tests, according to Eternal Law,’ Gabriel continued, ‘He becomes your subject and forfeits His right to proclaim the kingdom of heaven among the Race of Men. If He fails...’
‘If the Nazarene fails...’ Lucifer echoed Gabriel’s words, toying idly with his sceptre. ‘If He fails ... He will spend the rest of His life in obscurity in Nazareth, making tables for old, fat women in dusty marketplaces.’
Michael glared at the smirking Lucifer.
‘The contest will be between the two contenders,’ continued Gabriel quietly, deliberately ignoring Lucifer’s comment. ‘According to Eternal Law, the tempter must be the self-same one who caused man’s demise in the first place.’ Gabriel closed the tome. ‘Lucifer contended with Adam and Eve; Lucifer will contend with the man Jesus. The contest shall take place in the land of Jesus of Nazareth’s origin. The only ones present shall be the two contenders. Christos in His present form as one of the Race of Men – Jesus of Nazareth, and Lucifer, present ruler of the aforesaid Race of Men.’
‘So – if the Nazarene obeys even just one of my commands, He is mine!’ Lucifer snarled. He stood, suddenly bored with the proceedings. ‘I have demands! He is to fast all sustenance. For forty days. Before the contest.’
Jether nodded. ‘Your demands will be duly noted by Eternal Law.’
Lucifer strode towards his chariot, his beautiful features starting to mar. ‘I await the contest eagerly.’ He lashed his stallions. ‘The Nazarene shall rue the day He was born on my planet!’ he cried, then rode high into the shimmering skies of the First Heaven towards Perdition.
Jether stood and smoothed his robes. Grim.
‘The gathering is closed. Let us prepare. I will stay and close the tomes.’
Chapter Fourteen
AD 26
Aretas, still noble and regal, his once jet black hair now greying, was in his sixty-eighth year. ‘Aretas, Lover of his People’ was the name affectionately given him by his subjects. He gazed out upon the vast expanse of Arabian desert, far beyond his formal pavilions and ornamental palace gardens. Then he flung open the portico windows, inhaling the heady perfumes of Nabatean spices. The Nabateans were exceptionally skilled traders, conducting a flourishing commerce between China, India, the Far East, Egypt, Syria, Greece and Rome. Petra now had a profitable trade with the seaports in frankincense, myrrh and spices, as well as trade with Egypt in bitumen from the Dead Sea, and the silk trade with China. From its origins as a fortress city, Petra had become a wealthy commercial crossroads between the Arabian, Assyrian, Egyptian, Greek, and Roman cultures, controlling the routes not only eastward from Petra across the Negev to Gaza, but also northward up the King’s Highway to the outskirts of Damascus.
Over the past thirty years, Aretas had poured his life out as supreme monarch of Arabia, and his people had reached the height of their economic and cultural development. He had built new towns and improved old ones, constructed irrigation systems, and expanded the agricultural base. And the status accorded Nabatean women had been the fodder of Arabian marketplace gossip these past ten years, much to Aretas’ amusement. Their women not only now inherited property but could buy and sell it in their own right. Jotapa would be proud, as would her gracious, long-departed mother, his beloved queen, who had died in childbirth. He smiled, well satisfied. He had ruled his noble people with devotion. With might and with justice.
He smoothed his robes. But this dusk, his attire was simple. A tunic of a pale lilac silk covered his loins, rather than the rich deep-purple silks of his formal royal garments. He was determined. Tonight he would lay aside his station as Aretas the king, and for one fleeting evening he would be simply Aretas the man.
His entire royal household was already en route with the festival tents to his summer encampment at the Gulf of Aqaba, and at this very moment his manservant was saddling his favoured stallion, Aswad. He would ride as he had when he was very young – so young that his face had been hairless and smooth. He would ride the desert paths that he had ridden with his father decades before, across the white sands to the Gulf of Aqaba, its crystal-clear waters fringed by the lapping white palm sands.
He would relish the sensation of the warm water lapping against his skin as the steady northerly breezes from the Negev Desert fanned him.
There was a soft knock at his chamber door, and Malichus, his cupbearer, entered. He held out a scroll.
Aretas smiled. A missive from Jotapa! ‘Thank you, Malichus. Inform Yohanna that I am ready.’
Malichus bowed in reverence as he backed away and closed the chamber door.
Aretas tore open the missive and studied the contents, imagining Jotapa’s spontaneous, abandoned laughter and her soft voice.
...My husband, though a hard man – like all kings, surely! – treats me with grace. Yes, al
l is well here in Judaea – except, of course, for your absence, dearest Papa ... But when I am lonely my soul is comforted by the gardens of the princes; they bring me close to you, and to Arabia...
Like yourself, I hear many stories of the Hebrew here in Tiberias, Papa. There are rumours inside the palace walls that His feet tread these shores. I shall make discreet inquiries of the Hebrew’s whereabouts.
Aretas folded the letter carefully. He looked down at the beautifully carved wooden cross on his desk. How long had it been since he last saw the infant King? He cast his mind back to the gruelling journey from the monastery in Alexandria back to Judaea. He had ridden for days across the desert, escorting the child and his parents to the borders of Judaea. He vividly remembered how the three-year-old had insisted that he keep the cross – had thrust it with His small, chubby fingers into his palm and closed Aretas’ strong, brown fingers over it. And indeed it had comforted Aretas. There were times when he felt that it had a strange power. He shook his head.
Over twenty-seven full years had passed, and he had never seen the infant king again. But his spies came on occasion, filled with wild, unsubstantiated tales of the Hebrew’s eloquent, earnest soliloquies and fierce, courageous confrontations with those Jews the Hebrews called Pharisees. Aretas laughed at the thought of those pampered religious exploiters of the commoners, with their soft, lily-white hands. Aretas was comforted. The Hebrew was discerning. Aretas would ask Jotapa in his next missive to keep an eye on his compatriot King – his friend.
Aretas laughed out loud. An Arabian king and the Hebrew. He caressed the cross and laid it gently back down on his desk.
He raised his hands to his head and unbraided his long, curly hair from its ribbons, picked up a spear from his collection, placed it over one shoulder and strode through the portico doors. Aswad stood patiently tethered in the Garden of Kings. The stallion’s chest was broad, his back was short but strong and his shoulders sloped, the source of his immense power. His noble head was held high. Aretas lovingly stroked the silky black mane.
‘Aswad,’ he murmured. The stallion nuzzled him affectionately, his clear black eyes gentle, as Yohanna, the royal saddler, released the tether.
Aretas hesitated, then took a step back, his gaze moving far upward towards the eastern chambers of the golden-roofed royal palace. A solitary lantern was burning and a form stood at the window. Aretas nodded in acknowledgment. For a fleeting moment his shoulders slumped, and a terrible weariness clouded his countenance.
‘Malichus,’ he said, seeming suddenly older than his sixty-eight years, ‘tell Zahi that he is in my prayers and in my heart while I am gone.’
Then he mounted Aswad, leaned over and whispered in his ear. At once the magnificent black stallion sprinted forward, its black high and hollow hooves kicking up the sand as they raced like the wind past the grand pools, past the royal hunting parks, across the white desert sands, out towards the Red Sea.
* * *
Jether closed the last tome, placed the quill pen beside it and rubbed his eyes wearily. He rose from the table and walked towards the cascading fountain.
‘So the contest hastens.’
Jether froze at the sound of the distinctive elegant tones.
Charsoc smoothed his voluminous mulberry taffeta sorcerer’s vestments and adjusted his lilac silk neckerchief with pale jewelled fingers. He stared at the cascading fountains around the lush gardens.
‘You are too self-assured, Jether, my compatriot.’ He held out a goblet to catch the elixir, then sipped delicately. ‘Tayberry, my favourite extract – one of the wonders of the First Heaven!’
‘You outstay your welcome.’
‘And you underestimate the fog that this Race of Men contends with on that muddy little orb – Earth. It dulls their senses, Jether; it veils their souls.’ He drank the elixir down with one elegant swig.
‘It veils His soul ... the Nazarene ... thirty years, Jether,’ he whispered, circling Jether. ‘Thirty years encased in matter, born of a woman.’ His voice was very soft. Compelling. ‘Birthed of the mud and dust that clouds their sense – it clouds His, also. Each and every dusk, Jether, the memory of Yehovah fades from the Nazarene’s mind, until it becomes just a distant imprint.’
‘He will pass the test,’ Jether said quietly. He walked alongside Charsoc as he had done each dusk thousands of aeons past when they used to walk – two bosom friends engaged in intimate conversation across the same manicured lawns.
‘The Nazarene has forgotten Yehovah. Now His soul will play to fame and recognition ... to all that dwells in the fallow breeding ground of men’s souls.’ Charsoc’s eyes glittered. ‘Do not be deceived, Jether. This is no walkover. Lucifer is well prepared. If He obey’s even one of Lucifer’s commands – His soul is ours.’
Jether gazed out over the battlements to the Sea of Zamar. ‘We do not underestimate,’ he said softly, his back to Charsoc. ‘We well know the fight for His soul.’
Charsoc reached inside his robes and removed a missive embossed with the seal of Perdition. ‘My master’s demands. An extra proviso that he would incorporate in the tenets.’ Jether stared at him. Sober. Waiting. ‘He would choose the location of his contest with the Nazarene.’ Charsoc held out the missive to Jether. Jether took it and placed it in his robe.
‘I will deliver it to Yehovah.’
Charsoc’s face was raised to the skies, and a strange ecstasy played on his features. His eyes were wide open, drinking in the vast panorama of lilacs and vermilions that he had once loved so well. His long white hair blew loose in the tempests. For a fleeting moment, Jether studied him. It was almost as it had been.
Slowly Charsoc turned. ‘You pity me, Jether.’
‘I know you miss our world,’ Jether said softly.
‘Do not grieve for me.’ Charsoc looked long and hard into Jether’s weary pale blue eyes. ‘I sold my soul aeons past.’
A long serpent writhed across Charsoc’s legs. He reached down and grasped the snake, which became a silvered cane with the head of a serpent. He lifted his face to Jether’s, his pale eyes expressionless – sightless once more. ‘Even I do not know what I am capable of.’
And then, just as in days of old, he vanished into the white, rushing mists.
* * *
2021
Aqaba, Jordan
– Jason –
The event was going brilliantly, better than even Julia St Cartier could have imagined. The contemporary open-air set designed by her London events company, ‘Lola’, had been phenomenal. The caterers had outdone themselves, the live satellite connection to VOX Communications had gone without a hitch, and any international journalist worth his or her salt had been waiting next door in the crowded pressroom since dusk. She decided to give herself a short but desperately needed luxury of a powder room break and walked through the marquee, checking as she walked how many new bottles of champagne would be needed. She glanced over to the enormous helipad where the Princess of Jordan had landed earlier. Other VIPs were now arriving in quick succession. Suddenly her heart turned to ice. There he was – striding down the helicopter steps. She couldn’t mistake that stride and the severe set of his face – it was Jason De Vere.
Her heart raced. Why, he never came to these functions! He hated them – would complain for days after being dragged to one. There must be a new merger or some spectacular opportunity for him to appear, even though it was his brother’s big moment. She watched as he embraced Adrian and they launched instantly into deep conversation.
She continued walking to the powder room, her mind all at once a fog. This was the first time she had seen Jason up close and personal since their divorce thirteen months earlier. Maybe the leopard had changed his spots; maybe their split had given him a new lease of life.
She pushed open the powder room door, staring blankly at her reflection in the huge, gilt-framed mirror. She felt tired tonight – old – as old as she was – forty. ‘Get a grip on yourself, girl,’ she murmured. Wh
y should she care? She and Jason were over. He had his new life; she had hers. Trembling, she unclasped the travel compact and touched up her eyeliner and brows, then dabbed on a hint of clear gloss and touched up her foundation. All age defying. She smiled. She idly wondered if her expensive cosmetic creams actually worked. She closed the compact and shook her highlighted blond mane. Okay, into the lions’ den.
She walked out back into the marquee, fighting her way past the dance floor and through the growing crowd, her eyes intent on the floor. Suddenly, a pair of large, black-shoed feet barred her way.
Heart sinking, she slowly raised her head. Jason De Vere stood in her path, his whisky glass already half empty, his face flushed. He’d most likely had two since he arrived, she thought cynically. He was staring at her.
‘Jason ... what a surprise.’ She stared back at him, blankly.
‘Julia.’ He continued to stare at her. Silent.
Julia rubbed her neck. ‘I have to go. I’m running...’
Jason looked around them. ‘You’re running the event. Congratulations. Pity the lawyers didn’t know that before you took half my assets.’ he drawled sarcastically.
Julia glared at him. Fuming. Her deep-brown eyes flashed. Only Jason could make her that infuriated. Instantly. She walked away.
Jason grasped her arm. Hard. His fingers dug into her flesh.
‘Sorry ... sorry, okay? It’s been a tough day.’
Julia unclasped his hand. Incensed.
‘And mine’s been tougher!’ she spat.
‘Of course,’ Jason retorted mockingly. ‘Your needs always were the overriding factor.’
‘Don’t you dare.’ Julia’s voice trembled with rage. ‘...Dare ... dare. Jason Ambrose De Vere...’ Her eyes flashed dangerously.
‘Eighteen years..., I spent eighteen years of my life subordinating my entire life to your needs.’
‘My needs!’ Jason slugged down the remains of his whisky. ‘You spent more time at your high-flying New York designer hairdresser than you did at home...’ He glowered at her. ‘Or in the bedr–’
