by Wendy Alec
He caught himself. Not the time to risk being slaughtered in cold blood, in full view of a thousand of Adrian’s guests. She dragged him by the arm out into the kitchen galley.
‘Do you have to make a scene?’ Julia hissed.
Jason placed his whisky glass on a passing wine steward’s tray and raised both hands in submission. ‘Okay, okay. Fine – I was a selfish, boorish husband. It’s all my fault. Let’s try again. I’m sorry. Apology accepted?’
Julia glared darkly at him.
‘I mean it, Jules, I was a terrible husband ... I took your advice, went to therapy – they told me I had intense deeply buried anger and resentment. Okay?’ He raised both his hands.
‘You ... you actually went to therapy?’ Julia stared up at him in amazement. Stunned.
He nodded.
‘That’s remarkable.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘How many times did you go?’
Jason tugged at the knot in his tie. ‘Once,’ he said sheepishly. Julia rolled her eyes in frustration.
Jason looked around at the festivities. ‘Seriously, I’m really impressed with Lulu.’
Julia glared. ‘It’s Lola,’ she snapped.
‘Lola ... deeply impressed. This is great – really great, Jules.’
He reddened. He rubbed his collar, looking like an embarrassed schoolboy.
‘Lola...’ he murmured. ‘After your mother? I’m really glad for you.’
Julia’s eyes softened. He was sincere; she knew him that well. He was truly glad for her.
‘What brings you here?’ Her expression softened slightly. ‘You hate these things.’
‘Adrian. It’s his big night. He took a real beating over Melissa’s death.’
Julia’s eyes moistened. ‘It was tragic ... and the baby.’
‘I felt his big brother should be here and support him. I can’t stay long.’
Julia nodded.
‘Humanitarian of you,’ she muttered sarcastically. He followed her out of the kitchen back into the marquee. Jason gently took her by the arm, guiding her through the crowds.
‘Julia, I miss Lily. I want to see more of her.’
Her jaw clenched. ‘Jason, this is not the time – or the place.’
‘Well, you always said my timing was atrocious. At least some things never change.’
She sighed and turned to him. ‘Jason, our daughter is crippled ... in a wheelchair. It’s not as though she can spend weeks at your New York penthouse while you’re at work. Face it, you were never home when you had a family – what’s changed?’
‘Then let her come when Mother’s in New York. Let her stay with Mother more often, and at least I can see her.’
Julia nodded. It was reasonable. She loved Lilian De Vere deeply. And trusted her.
‘I’ll think about it.’
He nodded.
‘I have to go.’ She walked away, back towards the podium.
‘Julia...,’ he called.
She turned. He stood staring at her, unable to bring himself to say what was in his heart. She stood waiting, then turned and walked away.
‘Damn!’ Jason made his way to the bar. ‘Whisky – make it a double.’
Julia watched him, unobserved, from the far side of the marquee as his expensive minders instantaneously circled him, guiding Jason deftly past the crowded dancefloor towards a group of VOX’s wealthy billionaire investors. She watched as he stopped to shake hands with a second group – Chinese ministers from Beijing. She could read him at a glance – he was already bored with the proceedings – making smalltalk.
He had aged. At forty-four, his thick jet black hair was almost silver. He was well worn although still ruggedly handsome, his tanned face already creased with numerous lines. And he’d lost weight. It suited him to be so lean, she thought. He was unhappy. Restless. She could sense it. She sighed. There were times when it was hard to live without him, but it was far harder to live with the driving, unrelenting force that was Jason De Vere.
She caught sight of Adrian, heading towards the pressroom.
Tonight his face was drawn. The recent deaths of Melissa and the baby had hit him like a bodyblow. He looked gaunt, not his usual charming self. He was five years younger than Jason. Tall and slim. Cultured. Educated. His sense of humour was fabulous. He was genuinely funny. And likeable.
Unlike his brother Jason, who had few friends, thousands of enemies and was as blunt as a proverbial sledgehammer.
A tanned, manicured hand rested softly on hers. She turned. ‘Adrian!’
He gave her his endearing, lopsided half smile. ‘Hiya, sis. You’ve done us proud tonight.’ He kissed her affectionately on both cheeks. ‘The predators await.’ He nodded in the direction of the pressroom.
Julia smiled. ‘You okay?’ She straightened his tie, as she had done so many times before when he was home from boarding school at Gordonstoun when he was just fifteen.
He nodded. ‘I’m coping.’ He said softly. Julia studied the man in front of her. Just two years younger than her, he had matured from an awkward though brilliant teenager into a most attractive man. He had married young, straight after university – and well – into a top British political family. Melissa Vane-Templar was beautiful, elegant and brilliant, newly-qualified as a barrister. Her father, Viscount Miles Vane-Templar, Leader of the House of Lords, had been like a father to Adrian. Melissa had died four months ago giving birth to their first son, Gabriel Lance, who was stillborn. Straight after the funeral, Adrian had furiously thrown himself back into his work and been almost single-handedly responsible for creating the most impressive and ambitious peace process in the history of the Western world. The final accord was to be signed next month in Damascus. And ‘Lola’ was sole events co-ordinator.
Adrian kissed Julia tenderly on both cheeks. ‘Thanks, sis. I could do with an escort.’
She turned to catch Jason glaring at them from the bar, across the room. Why, she thought, he’s jealous.
She laughed softly, enjoying his discomfort and placed her arm deliberately through Adrian’s.
Jason slammed his glass onto the bar top and strode back towards the helipad.
Julia stopped by the pressroom door, watching the big black helicopter with the De Vere monogram on its side taking off into the Aqaba skies, carrying Jason De Vere to Amman, no doubt to board his Gulfstream.
She sighed.
Chapter Fifteen
Betrayal – AD 27
Jotapa sang softly to herself the ancient Arabian lullabies she had loved so well when Aretas had sung to her as a child. She walked with a light step in her flowing white silk garments, along the imposing marbled corridors, past the Judaean king’s magnificent works of art and out into the colourful rose arbors on the sumptuous palace grounds that led up onto the Royal pavilions. She continued through gardens of exotic palms until she finally came to a secluded ornamental garden with a gurgling fountain. She placed a silver goblet under the fresh, clear running water and drank long and deeply. She turned to stare at the breathtaking views of the lake, drinking in the exotic beauty of the surrounding territory of Galilee. Today the lake was as a deep blue pool and its surface smooth as glass.
Her gleaming ebony hair, intricately braided with hundreds of small, fine freshwater pearls, fell past her narrow waist. Her large eyes, blue as the Mediterranean, danced in her exquisitely featured face. Her slim olive-skinned fingers were covered in diamonds and pearls – gifts from her husband of seventeen years, Herod Antipas, tetrarch of Galilee and Perea. She was breathtaking – the Arabian princess.
Jotapa hesitated beside a stately palm tree. Hearing soft voices, she caught sight of her handsome, well-manicured husband, standing below her by the palace portico with his chief adviser, Caspius. Jotapa beamed, about to make her presence known.
‘A missive arrived at dawn from Rome, Your Excellency ... from Herodias.’
Jotapa stopped in her tracks. She could hear Herod’s crisp, cultured tones effortlessly.
‘Herodias
has sworn she will not marry me until Jotapa is repudiated. Herodias demands it. Our affair is no longer secret – Jerusalem’s scandalmongers create mischief.’
‘Herodias has accepted your proposal of marriage, sire, and has drawn up a contract to move into your household on your next return from Rome. It is, however, in both your and Princess Herodias’s contracts that the daughter of Aretas is to be renounced...’
There was a long silence.
‘...thrown out.’
Jotapa’s blood ran cold. She stayed, hardly daring to breathe, hidden behind the palm’s foliage.
Herod Antipas paced up and down the path, his face drawn. ‘I would have got rid of her years ago if not for her father, that confounded warmonger Aretas!’
‘Then repudiate her immediately, master.’
‘If I divorce her, her devoted father will wage war on me with his horde of bloodthirsty Arabs!’
Caspius’s evil eyes narrowed as he placed his hand heavily on his master’s bangled arm. ‘But, master...’
Jotapa leaned forward, straining to hear him, hardly believing her ears.
‘There are other means...’
There was a long silence.
‘It must have no repercussions, Caspius. If there is any hint of villainy, the Arabians will slaughter us without mercy.’
Great, noiseless sobs racked Jotapa’s petite frame. She held her head in her hands, distraught, her gleaming raven locks falling with the tears down over her slim, jewelled fingers.
‘My Egyptian physicians are most skilled in the arts of poison ... There will be no evidence.’
‘And I could finally marry Herodias.’ Jotapa watched as Herod smiled calculatingly. ‘Make haste, Caspius. There is no time to lose. I leave for Rome at dusk and return twenty days hence. On my return, I shall invite the princess to my chambers, and we shall dine.’
‘It will be done, Your Excellency. On your return.’
* * *
Jotapa ran, stumbling, falling, back up the lower path towards her golden-roofed palace chambers. Tears mixed with ochre coursed down her high, elegant cheekbones as she wrote in Syriac with a shaking hand. Ayeshe, her father’s faithful old Arab manservant, bequeathed to her on her marriage, watched her with tears in his own eyes as well. Jotapa folded the letter hastily with trembling fingers.
‘Ayeshe, go to my father.’ She took a deep breath in between sobs. ‘Tell him that Herod seeks my life. He must save me. I will tell the king I am ill, and ask permission to convalesce at Macherus while he is Rome.’
She pushed the letter into the old man’s hands.
‘Saleem will organize all necessary preparations for the journey. My father’s generals must meet me there and escort me straight to Petra.’
Jotapa pushed Ayeshe out the back way and watched, trembling, as he mounted the white Arabian stallion.
‘Ride like the wind, Ayeshe,’ she whispered as the stallion tore out of the palace gates. ‘Oh, Papa!’ she sobbed.
* * *
A tall, haggard-looking young man with long, unkempt hair stood on the edge of the river. He wore a rough garment of camel’s hair tied with a leather girdle; his limbs were burned nut brown by the relentless Judaean sun. The crowds thronging the river Jordan stood riveted to his every impassioned word. His voice carried deep conviction, and his emerald eyes burned with fervour in his handsome, angular face.
‘I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness. Make straight the way of the Lord.’
He returned to his task of baptizing the unending procession of men, women, and children, when an enormous chariot, pulled by six white steeds decorated in golden ornaments, turned and stopped at a vantage point above the river. It was Herod Antipas’s royal chariot. The Baptist looked up from his baptizing and fell silent. He bowed his head, praying. Then grasped the shoulder of one of his disciples.
‘Ari, take care of the people. I have a message to deliver.’
His jaw set, he pushed swiftly past the eager, clamouring throng until he stood in the crowd just an arm’s length from the royal carriage, which had started to move slowly back on its way.
‘Stop! Stop, I command you!’
Herod’s soldiers grabbed the Baptist and shoved him roughly to the ground as the carriage came to an abrupt halt.
Slowly, the curtain parted, and a veiled face stared out directly at the man lying on the ground. A finger with a long painted fingernail pointed directly at him. A loud whispering rose up from the throng. The Baptist lifted his bloodied mouth from the dust.
‘Bring the creature here,’ Herodias commanded.
The soldiers manhandled him towards her. He struggled violently, his eyes flashing with anger.
‘Mmmm ... very handsome.’
John stared at her boldly, and Herodias removed her veil, revealing her ageing but still sensuous features. Her crimsoned lips pouted provocatively.
‘And not afraid.’ She stared at him, fascinated.
‘You are a man of God, the rabble say – so much wasted passion.’
A guard bowed deeply before the chariot.
‘He says he has a message for you, Your Highness.’
‘You have a message?’ She ran her finger over her lips. ‘For me? Bring the Baptist nearer, that he may tell me his message.’
The guards dragged John forward. Herodias reached out her soft, white ringed hand and caressed John’s face slowly and sensuously. He lifted his eyes to hers.
‘I have a message from the most high God. You are an adulteress, and incestuous. You sin against the most high God. You are under judgement.’
Herodias turned pale and began to tremble uncontrollably; her limbs became like water. Then her eyes blazed with fury. ‘You are a fool!’ she cried. ‘You insult a queen-to-be! Herod Antipas shall hear of this.’
John looked at her in the eyes, bold and at peace.
‘You shall pay for it with your life!’ she hissed. ‘When I am queen I shall seize you and throw you in the dungeons in Macherus!’ She seized the whip from the driver, and brought it violently down on the nearest horse. ‘I shall silence you, Baptist!’ she yelled as the carriage pulled away.
* * *
The seven pale lilac moons of dawn glimmered on the First Heaven’s horizons as Michael and Gabriel raced bareback on their stallions through the foaming silver waves towards the Palace of Archangels. They raced neck and neck, slowing as they caught sight of Jether in the distance. Michael slowed his stallion to an even canter. Gabriel followed until they reached the shore where Jether stood, grave. They dismounted.
‘The hour has come, my princes.’ Jether said softly. He held out a parchment embossed with the seal of Perdition in his hand to Michael who took it, scanning its contents.
‘The High Council received an extra proviso from Lucifer forty moons ago.’ Jether’s voice was soft. ‘Yehovah sets the time but Lucifer, in his capacity as sovereign ruler of the Race of Men, demanded the right to choose the location of his contest with the Nazarene. His proviso was accepted by Yehovah. He has stipulated through the royal courts that the location of the contest will be divulged only to his blood brothers. And to only one of you. That one must set foot on his domain before the fading of the twelve moons of Perdition.’
Michael’s eyes flashed with a dark fury. ‘What new foolishness is this?’
Jether passed the missive to Gabriel.
‘You must deliberate between yourselves. As, of course, is his intention.’ Jether lowered his tone. ‘We are well aware.’
‘I will go,’ said Gabriel softly. ‘He will only seek to incense you, Michael. And do it with deliberate intent.’ Michael’s chin set. ‘Yes – he may incense me,’ he stared angrily back at Gabriel, his emotions strangely charged, ‘but his seductions could still hold sway over you...’
Jether placed his hand gently on Michael’s arm. Michael bowed his head, immediately penitent.
‘Forgive me, Gabriel,’ he said softly, ‘his sorceries reach us even here.’
Jether took the missive from Gabriel and placed it in the pouch at his waist. ‘Your escort stands ready at the Western Gate. Lucifer awaits his brother at his summer palace above the Babylonian plains of the Race of Men. Choose wisely. Choose swiftly. The moons of Perdition fade even as we speak.’
* * *
Aretas paced the four corners of his ornate festival tent, Jotapa’s missive crumpled in his fist. He stopped, smoothed the page, and reread the letter for the third time. His black eyes glittered hard with wrath.
Ayeshe knelt before him, trembling. Aretas turned to his chief general. ‘Saleem, wake your generals from their beds. Prepare the royal guard. Ride through the night. Our enemy is time. Do not dare return without my daughter.’
He lifted his hand to Saleem, then strode through the tent’s entrance and gazed out across the white sands to the full moon illuminating the lapping azure waters of the Gulf of Aqaba. He turned to his chief of staff, standing silently in the shadows.
‘Break off all amicable relations with my son-in-law.’ His voice was quiet. Dangerously soft. ‘We will make a pretext for conflict, concerning the boundaries in the land of Gabala, as soon as Jotapa is safe and it suits our purposes – and inflict a severe and ruinous defeat on Antipas. Jotapa’s honour must be avenged at all costs.’ His eyes glittered black with revulsion. ‘As weak and wretched a prince that ever disgraced the throne of an afflicted country ... Mahmoud, pack the tents immediately. Wake the royal servants. We depart at dawn back to Petra.’
He put his hand gently on Ayeshe’s white head.
‘You have done well, my devoted servant.’
Aretas turned and strode back out across the tent court to the large carved stone a ‘Beytel’, that rose behind the tent. On the top of the altar lay the small carved wooden cross from Alexandria. He picked it up and held it tightly to his chest, raising his eyes to the heavens.
