by Neil Howarth
The Simeon Scroll
The Armageddon Trilogy - Book 1
Neil Howarth
For Gigi
for every single day
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
92. The Final Pontiff
1
The Monastery of Saint Martial.
The man came rapidly out of sleep.
He opened his eyes and lay there in the darkness, unsure for a moment where he was, aware only of the rapid thump of his heart. He moved his head cautiously, his eyes gradually adjusting to the gloom. Familiarity returned slowly, a temporary bed in temporary accommodation.
He realized he was holding his breath and let it out with a quivering sigh, still trying to identify the strange disquiet he felt, but it remained elusive.
He pushed aside the coarse blanket and swung his legs out of the narrow cot. An ancient slit window cast a pale pool of moonlight into his humble accommodation, a room barely wider than his outstretched arms. A hint of sickly, sweet sulfur wafted in on the early morning desert breeze, carried up from the coast of the Dead Sea, a thousand feet below.
He padded across the cold stone floor in his bare feet and filled an earthenware bowl from a large jug. He splashed the cool water on his face and across his body, then dried himself quickly. He slipped on a sweatshirt and worn denim pants, and stepped into a pair of leather sandals, then pulled on a traditional, grey monk’s habit.
He raised his arms and stretched, attempting to ease the kinks out of his muscles and joints, but this morning he felt the painful burden of each of his sixty years. He stood for a moment of contemplation, repeating a silent prayer, but it did little for the unease that sat deep and disquieting in his gut. He knew it was early, though he had no watch or clock. The chapel would be empty. Perhaps a little solitude and contemplation would settle his soul. He retrieved his gold-rimmed spectacles from the small bedside table and headed for the door.
A solitary candle at the far end of a long passageway provided a dim illumination as he hurried on. He felt it again, like a ripple through his body. He stopped, reaching out for the wall to steady himself and took a deep breath, searching internally, looking for a sign. Was there a pain, an ache, a different sensation? Brother Thomas was a devout man of God, but even by his own admission, he was an incurable hypochondriac. But, as he always told himself in these times of crisis.
Even hypochondriacs die.
Perhaps this was to be his final reward for failure, a parting gift to add to the bitter disappointment of yet another failed step on this interminable journey.
He steadied himself then began to walk, the hollow scuff of his sandals echoing off the stone walls as he went. He resisted the urge to look behind him, and climbed the steps at the far end, his breath a little more labored than usual. His chest seemed tight, yet there was still no pain.
He entered a long, narrow corridor, candles flickered at intervals along the way. The sweet smell of incense filled his nostrils, an aroma that usually brought him comfort, but this morning it seemed to have the opposite effect, as if something sinister lurked out there.
His ears strained for any sound, yet only the echo of his sandals broke the silence as he pushed on. The floor seemed to vibrate beneath his feet. His legs were suddenly weak. He dropped to his knees on the hard stone tiles, screwing up his eyes tight, and fervently began to pray.
His body started to shake as if the whole monastery was shaking. A rumble shook through his slender frame, forcing him to open his eyes. The candles seemed to flicker and dim before him, and the whole building began to vibrate violently. Thomas realized it was not his body that was failing, but he still might stand before the Lord this day.
Then suddenly it was gone, leaving only stillness, and Thomas wondering if he had imagined it, were it not for the swirls of dust particles still floating in the air. A loud crack tore apart the silence. The floor tilted crazily beneath him, and thick dust billowed into the passage. Thomas pitched forward into a dark void. His head struck something hard, and the world erupted in a flash of bright, white light.
The epicenter of the earthquake was forty miles to the east, deep in the Moab mountains, but a secondary fault ran beneath the Dead Sea, out towards the monastery, channeling the energy.
Thomas opened his eyes.
All was black. Was that it? Was it now time to atone for his sins? And his failings? Except, if he was in that place, why did his head hurt? His fingertips brushed something in the darkness, something smooth and hard - something real. Perhaps he would not be meeting the Lord today after all.
He allowed his fingers to run over his discovery - a rounded edge, a flat, smooth surface. He pushed his other hand into the pocket of his habit and found the stub of a candle and a box of matches he always kept there. With trembling fingers, he struck a match and touched the flame to the wick. Light filled the tiny space. He groped for his glasses, holding up the candle. His fingers brushed against them, and he quickly pulled them on.
“Dear God,” he called out aloud as his eyes came into focus.
The room was hardly bigger than the one he had slept in the previous night — a low roof, what was left of it, and a flat stone floor. At the far side, a narrow set of steps disappeared into a pile of rubble, but not from the recent disturbance. This looked as if it had been there for centuries, probably from a s
imilar seismic event, and surely what had kept this place hidden all these years. Directly in front of him stood the object he had felt in the darkness. A simple tomb of polished stone. There were no carvings, just a plain, stone casket. His heart quickened. This had to be it.
Rock and rubble were scattered all around, but the central part of the tiny mausoleum appeared to have escaped unscathed - apart from the stone casket itself. It had been split neatly in two, leaving a dark fissure into the occupants last resting place.
Thomas leaned forward and peered inside. The candle cast a yellow glow, illuminating the dried and blackened bones of what had to be Brother Ademar, the founder of the Monastery of Saint Martial.
A hand squeezed at his heart, and for a moment he struggled for breath. Lying in the crossed arms of the ancient monk had to be the object of his quest, just as the message from the Keeper had foretold. A message that had set him out on this journey more than twenty years ago. And the Lord had guided his path and chosen his time, to be here, in this place, at this moment, rewarded at last for what had seemed an unassailable task. The Lord had laid a hand on his shoulder this day.
Surely this was a sign from God.
2
Rome, Italy - 3 weeks later.
The girl huddled in the doorway seeking shelter from the evening chill, hoping for fate to smile on her. A taxi stopped across the road, down a little from where she stood, and the light came on inside. A tall man, dressed in dark clothing got out. He paid the driver and headed towards her on the other side of the street. She smiled, the fatalistic optimism of a girl on the streets. Maybe business was picking up. She caught a brief glimpse of his face as he passed under the streetlamp, and her smile widened. Handsome, cropped dark hair, and perhaps a day’s growth on his face. Definitely worth a discount.
“Looking for some company?” she called out as he stepped out into the street. Her eyes moved down from his face. “Please.” Her gaze went down to the cobbled sidewalk. “Forgive me, Father, I did not realize.”
The handsome face broadened into a wide grin. “Think nothing of it, child,” he said as he passed by her. “I wasn’t always a priest.”
Father Joseph Fagan entered a narrow alley. A set of stone steps ran up in front of him, illuminated by two streetlights standing either side at the top. He skipped up the steps, glad of the exercise after three hours sitting on a plane, and an hour and a half in a taxi, fighting its way through the early evening pandemonium that was Rome’s rush hour traffic. The smile stayed on his face as he recognized the bar a little further along, tucked away in the corner. The faded sign outside announced ‘Enzo’s’.
The smoking ban in Rome’s restaurants and bars had been in place for more than ten years, but it seemed that the word had not found its way to Enzo’s. Fagan peered through a blue grey, tobacco fog, at the customers huddled around the tables. One, in particular, looked up and smiled as Fagan entered.
“Joseph, you made it.” He spoke in English with a pronounced Italian accent.
He stood up and stepped towards his much taller visitor. His face was of indeterminate age, anywhere between sixty and eighty. The little hair left on his head was grey, as was the straggly beard, and like Fagan, he wore the dog collar of a priest. Fagan embraced his old friend, taking in the strangely not unpleasant, aroma of acrid Italian tobacco and sweet, stale, red wine.
Father Luca pulled back and looked up into his friend’s face. “I’m sorry about your Poppa.”
Fagan shrugged. “It was his time. He never really recovered after Mom died. He moved back to Ireland searching for something. I don’t think he ever found it. Anyway, I hope he’s happy now.”
“Padre Jo.”
Fagan turned around.
A lady, probably older than Luca, stood looking up at him. She was almost as wide as she was tall. Her smile broadened into her dimpled, generous cheeks. “It has been so long.”
Fagan stepped forward then leaned a long way down to give her a hug. Maria had been married to the original Enzo who had started the place. But he had died long before Fagan had ever come here.
She planted a wet kiss on his cheek. “You are looking thin. You need some good Roman food inside you.”
“Thank you, Maria, but I’m good. I ate on the plane.”
She tutted and disappeared behind the bar.
Fagan sat down while Father Luca filled a glass with red wine and set it in front of him.
“I’m glad you were able to come and see us before you went back.”
“It’s a flying visit. It’s a busy time. We’re drilling the well next week.”
“Yes, I was talking to Benjamin just this morning.”
Fagan paused with the glass to his lips. He put the glass back on the table and looked across at Luca. “You could have asked me. I do have a phone. The whole irrigation project is dependent on that drilling. The timing is critical. We have a complete program, planting, more irrigation. We’re hoping for a crop next year. It will really make a difference. If we make this work, we’ve been promised funding to roll it out across the whole region. The impact will be unbelievable.”
“I do read your reports, you know.”
“Then you know how important it is, to all the people out there, and to me.”
“Joseph, it’s important to us all. Remember, I was the one who sent you out there in the first place.”
“Padre,” a croaking voice called out, breaking the moment.
Fagan looked round, but the visitor was not talking to him.
“Fredo.” Luca’s voice boomed as the visitor shuffled up to the table. “Have you got a lucky one for me tonight?”
The man appeared to be at least twice as old as Luca and barely reached Fagan’s height sitting down. He wore a black beret with a faded red and white bandana tied around his scrawny neck. He gripped a walking stick with a gnarled, knuckled hand, and with the other, he held a wooden pole, taller than himself with a festoon of lottery tickets hanging from its thin cross members.
“Padre, I think the Lord will smile on you tonight.”
“Fredo, you tell me that every week.” Luca dropped a ten euro note onto the table. Fredo propped the pole against his shoulder, handed over a ticket and the money disappeared. He bid them good night and shuffled off in search of more customers.
“I thought priests weren’t supposed to gamble.”
“I’m not gambling,” Luca said as he stuffed the lottery ticket into his pocket. “I’m giving to charity.” Luca pointed a finger towards heaven. “He makes sure of that.”
Fagan took a sip of his wine and regarded his friend. Luca was born Luciano Alfredo Baldini in New York City’s Little Italy. But if you cut him in half, he would have Sicily written all the way through. They spoke only Italian in Luca’s house when he was growing up and in the local neighborhood. When he first went to school, he couldn’t speak any English, but then neither could most of the other kids. The Italian accent remained.
“Speaking of him, how is the Holy Father?” Fagan asked.
Luca cracked a smile and gave a slight shrug. “He’s good, but these are hard times. His Reach-Out program is getting a lot of resistance. The Curia hate it, the Bishops despise it.”
“What did he expect? It would take away all their power. Still, that will only spur him on.”
Luca’s face lost its smile. “He has a small favor to ask.”
Shit.
Fagan muttered the word under his breath. He should have seen that coming. He should have known when Luca said he had spoken to Benjamin. He was checking if everything was under control.
“Is it a favor or a command?”
“Now Joseph, there’s no need to be like that.”
“I’m planning to leave as soon as I can make the arrangements. I already told you the work we have planned is important. I need to be there.”
Luca opened his hands. “It’s just a small favor. It will take you a few days at most. And Benjamin is perfectly capable of getting thing
s started. You’ll be back with him in no time at all.”
Fagan slowly shook his head. “What is it? What does he want me to do?”
Luca lit one of his foul smelling Nationalis and peered at Fagan through the smoke. “He needs someone he can trust. Someone who can be discreet. Someone with the unique skill set that you have.”
“I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”
“Joseph, he would not be asking if it wasn’t important. You know the pressure he’s under, and there’s no one else he can rely on, no one else he can really trust.”
Fagan wondered who was doing the asking. Luca had a habit of doing what he thought was best for the Holy Father. He saw himself as his self appointed guardian, and his motto was always, better to ask for forgiveness than permission.
“I’m not that person anymore.” Fagan had a glimpse of something he kept locked away. He touched the Roman collar at his throat. “Joe Fagan’s been dead a long time.” Fagan put his glass down on the table. “He knows I’ll do anything for him - almost. But I won’t go there again.”
