The Age of Apollyon Trilogy (The Age of Apollyon, Black Sun, Scorn)

by Mark Carver

  “Amen.”

  Bishop Valenti considered the candle flame a moment longer, then gazed at the brothers with stern, flickering eyes.

  “What are we going to do?” he asked simply.

  Those seated around the table suppressed groans of despair. Usually it was they who asked the questions; it was not a good sign that the leader of the Council was at a loss at the very start of the meeting.

  After a moment of hesitation, one small-voiced priest piped, “I have been poring over the Revelation to John and other end-times prophecies and I can find nothing that correlates with current events. The Manifestation was a shock to textual scholars, but this new resurgence of persecution isn’t foretold anywhere....“

  “What about Matthew chapter 24?” another chimed in. “Hewitt at Oxford Theological Seminary states that—“

  A third priest broke into the fray. “Hewitt? He’s a heretic! Do you forget that he claims—“

  Voices erupted from every corner of the table.

  “What about the reference to Satan in Revelations chapter 12? Couldn’t it be applicable to what’s happening today?”

  “That’s exactly what Hewitt would say, which of course makes it wrong!”

  “Couldn’t Revelations 12 also be referring to the Manifestation? And what about the verses in—“

  The bishop smashed his gnarled fists down upon the table.

  “Silence!” he roared.

  All words ceased immediately, and the candle flame trembled.

  He glared at the childish rabble circling the table, and his lips curled beneath his beard.

  “I don’t give a damn about this prophecy or that reference. How will that help us protect our flock and continue God’s mission? Our church is teetering on the brink of extinction, and the flames of hell lap at our doors like hungry dogs. This is the end, gentlemen, unless we do something besides bicker about feeble and useless interpretations!”

  The eyes of the brethren fell to the floor in shame; none could meet the bishop’s withering gaze. Father DeMarco, who had been caught up in the ecclesiastical scuffle yet had not lent his voice to the commotion, found his thoughts flitting back to Tourec. He kneaded his hands, unsure if he should broach the matter to the Council.

  As he opened his mouth, he was interrupted by a priest across the table.

  “Bishop Valenti is right. Theological debates won’t help us, and even if we did find correlations between our times and biblical prophecies, that won’t put food on our tables or feet in the aisles. We all know that whoever lives by the sword shall die by the sword. I also know this, my brothers: I am not willing to live like this, and I would rather die than see my church ravaged by heathens, and if that death comes because I take up the sword, then I will consider myself blessed.”

  Father DeMarco was as stunned as the others. The brethren assembled around the table murmured to each other, and the prevailing sentiment was that the outspoken priest was right. Now was the time to defend the church not only with faith, but with force.

  Bishop Valenti watched the chaotic discourse in silence. After a few minutes, he raised his hands and quieted his brothers.

  “Gentlemen, we need to lay out a specific and targeted course of action, but first, we must all be in agreement about the trajectory of our church. While it pains me to lend my support to the violent defense of our flock, I do not see any other alternative. The enemy has brought this war upon us, and we have only two options. I do not believe that our Heavenly Father would want us to turn the other cheek when it is not a hand that strikes us, but a sword.”

  His eyes whipped across the table. “So, my brothers, let us take a vote. This vote must be unanimous, for the decisions we make today will affect the entire European church, and beyond. If there are any grievances, they will be heard.”

  The bishop exhaled deeply, then continued.

  “Those in favor of declaring open war upon the forces of Satan and countering their attacks with armed resistance, raise your right hand.”

  No one moved, not even the candle flame. Eyes shifted to and fro, with no one daring to be the first to open the floodgates of war. Every heart knew what had to be done, but the dreaded weight of that choice nailed every hand to the table.

  Slowly, meekly, a hand, calloused and scarred by decades of labor in the sun and in the sanctuary, crept upwards. Father DeMarco was shocked at himself for being the first one to endorse such a grim strategy, but his words with Tourec the day before impressed in his mind that this course could not be altered. The longer the church resisted the inevitable, the weaker and more fractured she would become.

  Bishop Valenti set his jaw and nodded towards the priest. Like timid flowers pushing up through the soil, the weathered hands of the Council members rose up in support of war. Several eyes sparkled with tears, and one priest wept silently. Father DeMarco could barely keep from crying himself, and he immediately questioned his fateful choice.

  O God, what are we doing?

  “It is decided, then,” Bishop Valenti announced, his voice low and hollow like a funeral bell. “The Council had elected that we shall oppose the fires of hell head-on, and with God before us, at our side, and at our backs, we shall prevail.”

  “Amen,” the brethren said together.

  Bishop Valenti eased slowly into his seat. “Now, my brothers, my friends, we must lay down a foundation for our resistance. We know that this persecution shall only accelerate, although the Evil One seeks to deceive our governments by advocating ‘non-violent’ means of suppression. This doubletalk shall surely be exposed for the fraud that it is, for we have seen the forces of Satan running rampant in the streets, attacking members of our church and vandalizing our sacred buildings while the law remains idle or even complicit in these deeds. We cannot depend on anyone but ourselves. This world belongs to the devil, and those who put their trust in men are quickly dashed to pieces. The only language that these mongrels understand is force, and I sincerely believe that if we make our congregation feel safe again, they will come back to us and our church will become stronger. The weak and half-hearted will flee, and those that remain will be the true sons and daughters of God.”

  These words pierced the souls of every man at the table, and now Father DeMarco felt compelled to speak up.

  “What of the assassins who have already begun attacks on the church of Satan?”

  Bishop Valenti grumbled quietly in his beard. “These men are partially, or maybe even completely, to blame for these recent events, but perhaps this was the vaccine that our church needed.”

  “Do you support their actions, Bishop Valenti?” Father DeMarco asked, hoping his tone wasn’t too accusatory.

  The bishop met Father DeMarco’s gaze for a moment, then huffed. “Murder is murder, regardless of the mask it wears. But I believe that from this sin can come a righteous reawakening of the church, even under the threat of impending persecution. I do not know where this group resides or who leads them, but I will exert every effort to find out. They shall be brought before the Council and we will decide what course of action to pursue. In the meantime, we must bring word to our flocks, that they are blessed by God to take up arms to oppose the forces of evil.”

  “What arms?” a priest asked. “This isn’t America or the Outback, and I can count on one hand the number of men in my congregation who know how to use a gun, and even then, just for duck hunting.”

  A sly smile crept across Bishop Valenti’s bearded face, a smile that sent chills through Father DeMarco’s veins.

  “Do not fear, my brother,” the bishop said as he rose to his feet. “The church has many hidden resources that can be called upon in times of need. In addition, there are several methods of warfare that can be considered ‘unconventional,’ but are effective nonetheless.”

  The full meaning of his words slowly seeped in Father DeMarco’s mind like water soaking the soil. “You mean...terrorism?”

  The members of the Council gasped in horror.

/>   “This is madness!”

  “This is blasphemy!”

  “Sending God’s children to hell...!”

  “This cannot be allowed!”

  “God will pour his wrath out upon us!”

  The ancient bishop tried to quell the storm brewing around the table. “Please, please, my brothers. No one said anything about sending our women and children into the markets with bombs beneath their coats. Like you, I abhor the thought. But we must be realistic, gentlemen. We are not warriors; we are husbands, wives, brothers, sisters, farmers, laborers, teachers, doctors. If we are to fight, we must do so by whatever means we have available. And make no mistake, brothers, people die in war. We shall not emerge unscathed. But we must unite! This Council is the only organized body of church leadership left in Europe. It is up to us to motivate our church to action, to instill courage where there is fear. Perhaps this band of rogue assassins is the spark that this fire needs.”

  Father DeMarco couldn’t believe his ears. He leaped to his feet and stabbed the table with his finger. “You want our church to support these murderers? You want them to be the example that our congregations should follow? Are you insane?”

  Bishop Valenti’s eyes smoldered. “Brother DeMarco, did you not just raise your hand in support for this measure?”

  “To defend our church, yes. To endorse the unprovoked assassinations of—“

  The bishop’s fists crashed down upon the table.

  “Unprovoked?” he bellowed. “What has happened to your church, Brother DeMarco? What is happening even now to members of your congregation? Who sits upon the throne in the Vatican? Our church has been provoked since Jesus ascended into heaven and commissioned the Apostles. Our faith has been assailed without relief for two millennia, my brothers, and now we face worldwide extermination. There are no methods that are off the table, and whoever opposes the Evil One in any way shall be honored and blessed.”

  Father DeMarco and the rest of the brethren were silent. Bishop Valenti’s frail shoulders heaved with labored breaths, and he fell wearily into his chair, fitfully stroking his beard. Still standing, Father DeMarco scanned the frightened faces seated around the table, and every eye fell away from his.

  “I know one of them...” he said with a humble voice. Everyone turned towards him with surprise, and Bishop Valenti sat upright.

  “Who?” he demanded.

  The priest stared into the candle flame. “He was a former pupil of mine in the monastery at Susa. He left to defend Jerusalem after the Manifestation, and now he has banded together with his brothers to terrorize the church of Satan.”

  “He told you this himself?”

  “Yes.”

  “What else did he say?”

  Father DeMarco was a bit surprised at the harsh edge on the bishop’s voice. “Our conversation was brief. I tried to dissuade him but he was resolute. I do not know where is now.”

  Bishop Valenti glared at him for a moment longer, then coughed and leaned forward. “Let me be clear. Speaking for myself and for our church, we do not condone these violent acts. But the fact remains that they have occurred, and we have been given a unique opportunity to rally God’s children. Our people are beyond reassurance; they need to see something happen. When they see that the church has risen up against the powers of darkness with more than just words, they will take heart and our church will triumph. After all, we have God on our side.”

  Father DeMarco had a sickening feeling that the last sentence was spoken with an almost sarcastic undertone. His brethren remained silent, waiting to see how this would play out, and Bishop Valenti simmered at the far end of the table, awaiting Father DeMarco’s response. All eyes were upon him, and he could feel his pulse quicken and a tightness clenching his chest. He drew in a resolute breath, and spoke with a steady voice.

  “I withdraw my vote of support for this course of action. I am not blind to the fact that violence is on our doorstep, but my conscience will not allow me to embrace assassinations and terrorism in order to preserve our church.”

  He exhaled heavily, then continued. “If my decision is unacceptable to this Council, then I shall forfeit my seat at this table.”

  The heads of the brethren swiveled in unison towards Bishop Valenti. The candlelight flickered over his creased and weathered face, which wore a curious expression of sorrow. “Dear brother,” he began with a weary voice, “you are a valued member of this Council, and no one here wishes for you to depart. Please, sit down, and let us discuss these issues with clear—“

  “I am through with discussions,” Father DeMarco replied. He looked around the table, gazing firmly into the eyes of every priest. “My brothers, my friends, think about what this means. Do you really think this is what God wants? Is our faith in His providence so weak that we should take matters into our own hands, and cast aside our convictions and morality? We must resist the enemy, but not like this. Please, I beg you, not like this....”

  There were several inaudible whispers and murmurs, but no one responded directly to his impassioned plea. One priest finally stood up and cleared his throat, looking at Father DeMarco but unable to hold his gaze for long.

  “Bishop Valenti is right,” he said slowly and softly. “Our church cannot overcome this persecution with open warfare, and we must use whatever means and resources we have, even if they are contrary to our convictions. Allowing our beloved church to be brutalized is far worse than laying aside our strict sense of morality in defense of her. War is terrible, and we did not choose this, but this is where we are now, and we have to act.”

  The priest leveled his eyes at Father DeMarco, then sat down. The others in the room were silent. The bishop rested his chin upon steepled fingers, a mixture of disdain and sadness glimmering in his eyes. Father DeMarco looked down at the rough-hewn table, then slowly, as if pulled down by unseen hands, he sat down in his seat. He spoke in a voice that seemed as feeble and meek as the candle flame.

  “I give my support and obedience to the will of this Council,” he said, keeping his eyes upon the table surface, “and ask that God guide us and bless us in our holy mission.”

  He looked up and stared across the candle at Bishop Valenti’s shimmering expression of surprise and satisfaction.

  “Thank you, brother,” the bishop replied. “We all understand your fears, for we share them with you. But that is why we have God, my brothers: to soothe our fears and lead us towards the righteous path. Do not doubt His power, and He has promised in His Word that He will protect those who follow Him. He did not promise an end to suffering and persecution, but He did promise endurance to bear all trials. He also gave us hands and minds to defend ourselves if necessary, and that is what we shall do.”

  He rose to his feet, as did the other priests. Father DeMarco got up slowly, like a prizefighter who has just suffered a crushing defeat.

  Bishop Valenti scanned the frightened but resolute faces. “This is the beginning of the fight for our lives, gentlemen. We shall win. Make no mistake. We shall win.”

  A Bible lay open before him and he slammed it shut like the crack of a gavel. “We shall meet again soon. You will all be contacted with the location. In the meantime, I will endeavor to contact the assassins, and you, my brothers, must instill confidence and perseverance in your flock at all costs. It is the weakness in man’s heart that is our greatest enemy.”

  With dutiful nods, the priests filtered away from the table and began exiting through the door.

  “Brother DeMarco.”

  Father DeMarco stopped, and turned around. Bishop Valenti stared at him with steel-cold eyes. “I would like a word with you.”

  The priest swallowed roughly and left the ranks of the brethren. “Yes, Your Grace?” he asked as he approached his old friend, who motioned for him to sit down.

  When the other priests had left and the door was shut, Bishop Valenti leaned forward and gazed long and hard at the other man. “Are you sure you are not keeping anything from me regardin
g these assassins?”

  Father DeMarco instinctively leaned back and raised his hands in defense. “I swear, Bishop; I only know what I have just told the Council. I was completely surprised by his visit, and he left just as suddenly as he appeared.”

  “And you do not know where he is now?”

  “I have no idea, Your Grace. He could be in another country by now, for all I know.”

  Bishop Valenti exhaled impatiently, then leaned back in his chair after a moment of contemplation. “If he or anyone else from his rogue band attempts to contact you, you must inform me immediately. It is very necessary that these men be brought before our Council to answer for their deeds.”

  Father DeMarco nodded contritely. He regarded his hands as he addressed the bishop not as a clergyman, but as a friend.

  “Benicio, are you really so certain that we can win this war?”

  Bishop Valenti’s eyes sparkled with indignation, then softened. “I am frightened, just as you are, Stefano. We do not know the future of our church, but we do know that if we do not have faith, we are surely lost. It is our greatest weapon, and it has served our church well in the past. Think of all the trials that we have endured, and yet here we are, still alive. We shall arise from the ashes once again, I promise you.”

  Father DeMarco raised his head and looked deep into the bishop’s eyes. “Our church has tested God’s patience a great many times in the past. Frankly, I am surprised that He has allowed us to survive this long, considering the innumerable horrors that our church has perpetrated in His name. I love the church, my friend; you can be sure of that. But I love my God and His commandments more, and I fear that we may strain His mercy too far.”

  Bishop Valenti’s face squeezed into a joyless smile. “My brother, God is on our side. Our pure hearts sanctify our actions, and He will bless us. Have faith, my brother, that the path we walk is the right one.”