THE FIRST FACE OF
JANUS
a novel by
Phil Valentine
Also by Phil Valentine
THE GOD PLAYERS
For your reading enjoyment, we have included a
pronunciation guide in the back of this book.
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Book Cover and Interior Design by Red Raven Book Design
Copyright © 2017 by Phil Valentine
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
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The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017909524
ISBN 978-0-9968752-3-3 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-0-9968752-2-6 (ebook)
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
Indeed, the hereditary gift of prophecy
will go to the grave with me.
~ Nostradamus
Prologue
July 1, 1566
Salon-de-Provence, France
Death approached the two-story row house in the center of town like the distant clapping of hooves on the cobblestones. The courier passed through the north gate not yet grasping that this would be the most important night of his young life. The scents of the village hit his nostrils, the sweet smell of baked bread being prepared for morning market mixed with the hay and manure of a nearby stable. Light glistened from the moonlit rain puddles on the dark street. He came as quickly as was humanly possible after receiving the urgent cryptic message. His horse was prompted up the slight incline and guided left down the narrow side street. He dismounted and secured the leather reins to the wooden post, hoping beyond hope that he was not too late. With an empty saddle bag draped over his shoulder, he shifted from one foot to the other. He waited for an answer at the door and glanced up at the dim light that shone weakly from a second story window. It burned like the dying embers of a once-blazing fire whose gray ashes were the sole reminder of its former glory. A shadowy figure appeared in the doorway and scanned either direction up and down the street. The courier disappeared inside.
The two men scaled the well-worn spiral stone staircase without a word passing between them. Jean de Chavigny, the bedridden man’s loyal secretary, opened the door to the room with the reverence of a temple guard. He took the saddle bag and showed the young man in then closed the door behind him. A single candle on the table cast a yellowish hue across the face of a bedridden old man. It brought to life the vibrant colors of his blanket that danced in the light oblivious to the dire condition of the man they covered. The sweet scent of colchicine used to treat his gout hung in the air. He struggled to remain lucid enough to convey his instructions to the courier who had been summoned to his bedside.
The younger man approached the bed like one would an open coffin. The candlelight illuminated the rugged lines of the wise old face that clung to life among the linens. The wide-planked wooden floor creaked beneath the student’s feet. The slits of his master’s eyes glistened like two hot coals in a snow bank. His lips hid among the whiskers of his silvery beard dry and cracked with age.
“Devin,” the apprentice almost whispered. The title was respectfully reserved for only the most renown soothsayer. “You asked to see me?”
The elderly gentleman tilted his head toward the sound of the voice and motioned with one decrepit finger with what appeared to be his last ounce of energy, pointing for the young man to take a seat at his bedside. The apprentice did as he was commanded and drew his ear close to the dying man’s mouth.
“You have been tasked with a monumentally important assignment,” the old man began. “Although we have tried nobly to veil the nature of your journey, there are already sinister forces that are mounting against you.”
“I am not afraid,” the young man assured him.
The old man managed a slight smile. “I know you are brave, my son.” He coughed and his face once again assumed the seriousness of the message. “Monsieur de Chavigny has a special parcel for you. Place it in your satchel and ride until you reach the destination which I divulged to you on your last visit. Ensure that you are not followed. Be ever mindful of your surroundings. There are those who wish as much for your failure as I do for your success.”
“I understand.”
“These forces cannot allow you to reach your destination, but listen to me carefully. You must complete your journey. Do you understand? The very future of humanity itself depends upon your success.”
The young man’s jaw tightened. His nostrils flared with resolve. He righted himself in his seat. “I will not fail you.”
The old man reached for his hand and squeezed it for a brief moment then eased his grip.
“Go now, and may God’s providence protect you.”
The young man rose and headed out the door. On the other side, Jean de Chavigny fretted, “You are sure of your destination?” He handed him back his saddle bag and wiped the edges of his beard with a trembling hand.
“I am,” the young man answered confidently.
Chavigny held the boy’s eyes in his. “He has told me I will not find him alive at sunrise.”
The young man turned his head slightly, absorbing the pain. “He has lived a long and fruitful life.” He looked back up at Chavigny. “His great wisdom will not die tonight. I understand my role in preserving his legacy, and I am honored to grant him this last request.”
Chavigny smiled through his tears then turned to walk down a hallway. The young man followed. Chavigny pushed a panel on the wall and it opened to reveal a hiding place. He reached inside and produced a thick leather-bound book secured by a wide leather strap. He handed the book to the young courier. The man stuffed it into his bag and slung the bag over his shoulder.
Chavigny smiled and clasped the man’s hand in his. “Godspeed.”
The courier looked with caution at his surroundings then secured the saddlebag to his saddle. He paused to look once more up and down the empty street before mounting his horse. The hooves clicked off the sides of the buildings. He stopped for a second to get his bearings. That’s when he heard a different set of hooves on the cobblestones some ways behind him. They came to a stop a few beats after his own. He paused for a moment, frozen in fear. He steeled his resolve and dug his boots into the sides of his steed. His horse whinnied and bolted forward. The other horses were in pursuit. Within seconds he exited the gates of the city and directed his horse out onto the moist dirt of the countryside road. He swallowed hard to keep his heart from his throat.
The sound of hooves grew louder. The two horsemen were closing fast. The courier peeked over his shoulder. Sweat dripped from his forehead. He popped the reins on his mount to draw more speed from him. He knew it was only a matter of time before they overtook him. What to do with his parcel? He could not let it fall into the hands of these marauders. He had made a solemn promise. The words echoed in his head, The very future of humanity itself depen
ds on your success.
The two men galloped ever closer. The young courier was too terrified to look back. He squeezed every extra inch of speed he could from his horse. His whip flailed the poor creature on one shoulder then the other. His boots dug into its sides. He didn’t have to turn around. The thundering hooves were in his ears.
He rounded a bend as quickly as he dared. Two men on horseback positioned on either side of the road startled him so much that he instinctively pulled the reins back hard. He thought he caught a glimpse of one of their faces in the momentary flash from their wheel locks. Burning gunpowder from both guns simultaneously lit the night sky. Lead balls flew from each barrel. His horse reared up and spilled him onto the hard dirt of the well-traveled road. In that moment, he was sure he had met death. Suspended in time, he made his peace with it, but his heart grieved over the failure of his mission. And so soon after it had begun. The very future of humanity itself depends on your success. He feared failure worse than death itself.
The two balls ripped through the heavy night air above his head and exploded in the chests of their targets. The courier whipped his head around in time to see his pursuers torn from their saddles. They lay instantly dead in contorted heaps beneath the full moon. The assailants, cloaked in partial darkness and black capes, remained only long enough to be certain their task had been completed. Without a word, they galloped off in opposite directions one from the other.
The young courier gathered his wits about him. He calmed his horse, checked to make sure the contents of his saddlebag were still intact, then remounted. In a fleeting moment, he considered checking on the two men who had so feverishly chased him but thought better of it. He whipped the reins around. His horse pranced in the moonlight. He looked once more over his shoulder at the still remains on the ground then dashed off into the night to make his pre-appointed rendezvous with history.
Chapter One
Present Day
New York City
The crosswalk light turned from red to white and the mass of humanity moved in unison like cattle to slaughter. Listless eyes focused on the space in front of them never meeting the faces of any of the oncoming sweaty horde. A wild-eyed man with matted hair, tattered jeans, and soiled t-shirt talked full voice to himself and inexplicably sniffed the seats of parked bicycles. Bellicose taxi drivers rested their palms on their horns like gunslingers with itchy trigger fingers unable to resist the temptation to draw for more than a few seconds at a time. Hucksters with counterfeit watches twist-tied to sheets of stiff cardboard hawked their wares to naive tourists. A police siren a few blocks away segued into the squeaky brakes of a city bus which, in turn, gave way to the obnoxious whine of a motorcycle weaving its way through traffic. The smell of burnt pretzels from the street vendors blended with hot trash, sulfur-laden steam from a manhole, and day-old urine to give New York City its own unique odor. Hundreds of thousands of ravenous workers at a time poured from its skyscrapers onto the streets during lunch hour like pulling the drain plug from an ice chest on this hot July day.
Publishing snobs, the kinds who lived on the Upper East Side and vacationed at Nantucket or ‘The Vineyard,’ truly believed the twenty-five blocks between Central Park and 34th Street were the center of the universe. At least of the cultured and civilized world. Benson Crow thought otherwise. He’d rather be flogged than visit this godforsaken town. He walked like a man in search of an exit through the maze of cubicles at Dolos Publishing Company, one of twelve imprints in the Worldwide Press stable that called this corner of New York City home. Crow loathed the very thought of having to fight the teeming throng to make the planning meetings. He suffered the pretentious prigs of publishing about as well as he endured the block-long cab line on a frigid, sleet-soaked day in front of Madison Square Garden. He couldn’t imagine living in this manmade hell hole. He only came because he was contractually bound to do so. As soon as the meeting was over, he was making his way out as quickly as he came in. Thomas Browning, a man elevated to a position beyond what Benson Crow deemed appropriate, followed on his heels pleading his case.
“It’s a big convention, Benson. It’s great exposure.”
Crow kept walking. “Read the contract, Tom. I’m obligated to a reasonable promotional tour. I don’t think a weekend in Montreal is reasonable. Did you know they actually charge you to leave Canada? You can’t go home until you pay their ransom. It’s ridiculous.”
“That’s where the North American Futurists Convention is being held this year. I didn’t pick the location. You’re already on the schedule. They’re expecting you. You’re a futurist. You need to be there.”
“Futurologist,” he corrected, “and I know the types that are going to line up for the signed books. Conspiracy kooks, alien abductees, Bigfoot sighters.”
“Benson, that’s your audience.”
Crow stopped abruptly and turned to face him. “I don’t want that audience, Tom. They’re nuts. I’m not. I’m a serious writer. These are the same folks who just got off the bus from the Star Trek convention. I want to talk about subjects that matter. I want to write about subjects that matter, but all this company wants is cyberpunk and space goth.”
“That’s what sells.” Tom noticed several employees listening too closely. He stepped past Benson and held open the door to an empty conference room. “Let’s take this conversation private.”
“Look, I have a train to catch,” Crow said.
“This’ll only take a minute.”
Benson walked past him through the doorway and Tom followed closing the door behind them.
“I didn’t want to say this in front of the staff in the meeting, so let me get straight to the point,” Tom said. “You’ve read your royalty statement. Your sales are lagging. You barely covered the advance on your last book. As your publisher, I’m wide open to any subject within the futuristic genre. That’s what we do at Dolos, but this next book has to deliver or…”
Crow tried to pull Tom’s downcast eyes up to meet his own. “Or what?”
Browning hesitated for a moment. “Or we won’t be renewing your contract.”
“Aw, come on, Tom. Are you serious? You’re gonna drop me? Just like that? After six books? All of them bestsellers, I might add.”
“Bestsellers, yeah, but your advance is so large we hardly cover the nut. We can’t operate on those margins.”
Crow cast a disgusted look toward the floor.
“You’re a fine writer, Benson, but this is a business. I know you enjoy a lavish lifestyle. I get that, but we can’t keep paying these massive advances without results. You’re running on fumes, my man. You have to deliver this time.”
“The last book was your idea,” Crow snapped.
“Yeah, because we were up against deadline and you didn’t have any ideas of your own. We need something compelling. Something that’ll sell books. This industry is struggling. You know that.”
“And Montreal is supposed to help?”
“These conventions move inventory, Benson. They’re gold for your type of writing. Listen, I know how you hate this city. It’s a rat race. Get out of the country. Relax. Enjoy yourself. Clear your head. Maybe it’ll spark an idea. They speak French up there. Maybe a little French-speaking groupie?” He smiled a conciliatory smile. “Come on, what do you say?”
“Montreal,” Crow said it with a little less disdain in his voice as if he were trying on a new suit coat.
“Yes, Montreal,” Tom said. “We’ve got you a suite at the Hotel Le St-James in Old Montreal, right around the corner from the convention. A relaxing weekend. You’ll love it. One signing in the afternoon. That’s it.”
“Just one?”
“Just one. I promise. You’re in, you’re out. Limo, staff handling your every need. You sell a ton of books. You recharge your batteries, and you’re ready to start writing that next big novel.”
“One signing.”
“You have my word.”
UNLESS ONE HAS known the joy of f
ree-flowing ideas, it’s hard to imagine the frustration when creative thoughts simply stop coming. It’s like a river of imagination being dammed up. When the creative process is at its zenith, lucid inspiration falls in sheets from the sky. Clever lines puddle on the roadway of one’s mind leading the writer to believe the fresh flood of ideas will never end. Then the clouds burn away, and the scorching sun of dullness and vapidity sets in for a long drought. Such periods last for days, sometimes weeks, even months. When months turn into years, confidence is sapped, oftentimes to the point of no return. Brilliant writers are no longer regarded as such and are unceremoniously cast aside, their usefulness drained by publishing houses like wringing water from a wet washcloth. Benson Crow was living on borrowed time and that reality served to quash any inventiveness he might have left. He had strong doubts that Montreal was going to change his condition.
“Seat backs in their upright position, please,” the flight attendant instructed.
Crow adjusted his seat and pulled up the shade in the first class cabin in time to catch the jet’s final approach to Montréal–Trudeau International. The city was an enchanting balance of old and new. The skyscrapers respectfully sprouted among the historic sites, unlike New York where builders competed to see who could shoe-horn the tallest building into the smallest space. The St. Lawrence River lazily snaked through the city allowing wide expanses of waterfront green space as if to say no one was in a hurry.
From his comfortable seat, Crow noticed that the city was actually an island in the middle of the St. Lawrence. A factoid in the airline magazine in his seat back told him Montreal was named after the triple-peaked hill at its center, Mt. Royal. After initially feeling indifferent, perhaps even resentful, Crow found himself excited to explore this new gem he had discovered.
The First Face of Janus Page 1
