by Mark Carver
His body slumped. None of that mattered anyway. The fact was that he had failed her. He was on a cargo plane bound for Rome, and she was somewhere, cowering beneath the gun barrels of armed commandos. His noble motives had all amounted to nothing.
Who was he kidding, anyway? She was a Delusional, and he bowed to no god.
He bowed to no god.
I bow to no god.
I bow to NO god...
His mind struggled to convince his heart, but the words sounded hollow as they echoed inside his head. Perhaps it was true, but he had never felt so alone and helpless before. It was almost tempting to cry out to heaven for help.
His heart turned to ice. This was exactly what had disgusted him about the Delusionals from the beginning: their inability to take their lives into their own hands, to claim their own destinies. Everything was “God’s plan” or “God’s will,” which was simply code for their lack of strength in the face of adversity. Only the weak need help.
Patric stared at the blood on the floor.
Right now, he was incredibly weak.
Please, don’t let them hurt her...
Tears fell from his eyes and mingled with the droplets of blood beside his feet.
The leader of the commandos glanced at him and smiled wryly. He unbuckled his safety belt and walked over to where Patric was sitting. With a disappointed click of his tongue, he knelt down and peered at Patric’s tear-streaked face.
“Why the sad face, little boy? I thought you Delusionals were proud to suffer for your faith.”
Patric raised his eyes and looked at the man’s smug expression.
I bow to no god...
“You don’t know anything about me,” he said quietly.
“Ah, that’s true. Except that you are the brother of the most hated man in the world. And since he is dead, you are now the most hated man in the world.”
Patric knew it was useless to defend himself. He just bowed his head and kept his mouth shut.
The commando glared at him for a few moments, then stood up.
“We will be landing soon. Have you ever been to Rome? It is the most magnificent city in the world.”
He turned to walk away, then stopped.
“I’m sure it will be an unforgettable experience. You are going to be burned alive in St. Nero’s Square.”
Patric’s head jerked upwards, drops of sweat flying from his hair. The squad leader saw the terror in his eyes, and he couldn’t help but laugh.
“Don’t worry, you’ll be in good company. Countless Delusionals have been martyred that way. Even Nero himself enjoyed lighting his banquets with human torches.”
The man folded his hands together and appeared thoughtful for a moment. “It should be quiet beautiful, actually. I’m looking forward to it myself.”
Patric stared at the man. Every nerve in his body fired at once, but his mind seemed to reject the sensory overload. A cold, distant numbness crawled through his skin. His head felt incredibly heavy, as if it were going to topple from his neck. Something was pulling him towards the floor, like a gravity vortex sucking him downwards.
The commando grinned. “Cheer up, son. Think of the reception you’ll get in heaven after your martyr’s death. I hear that God’s quite a fan of such grand exits.”
Patric didn’t hear the man’s words. He was staring at the drops of blood and sweat on the cold steel floor.
So this was how it was all going to end. Public immolation.
Thanks for nothing.
As the squad leader’s footsteps receded, Patric heard another sound. A soft, quiet sound, like a distant trickling of water.
Every muscle in his body froze, and he listened. The sound became sharper, more focused.
It was a voice. A gentle, almost soothing voice, yet urgent and even commanding.
Do not fear.
In his desert of exhaustion, Patric could only ask one question.
How?
There was no answer.
CHAPTER 11
“Merda,” the driver cursed.
Father DeMarco leaned forward to peer through the dirty windshield. Traffic was at a standstill, and car horns blared in a discordant symphony of frustration.
“Go back and take Via del Corso,” suggested the man sitting next to him.
“Where are we going?” the priest asked.
The man with the foul breath shot him a warning glare. “No questions. Just wait.”
“Brothers, please,” Father DeMarco pleaded with an exaggerated sigh, “this hostility isn’t necessary. We are on the same side. I follow the same God as you. I have been a priest for over thirty years! Are you kidnappers, holding a frail old priest against his will?”
“No,” the man snapped. “We are following orders from a higher power than you.”
“Did that higher power command you to treat me like a captive? I am here with you now, and I am just as eager as you are to see what is coming. I too can sense that something great is about to happen, and I know that God’s hand is upon all of His children. Please, let us put aside the unpleasantness between us. We may not see eye-to-eye but there is no reason for us to act like enemies. We are all part of God’s holy family.”
Despite his growing aggravation, the driver exchanged a quick glance with his comrade.
“Untie his hands.”
The man seated next to him removed the rope that bound the priest’s hands behind his back. Father DeMarco gratefully stretched out his arms and rolled his aching shoulders.
“Grazi.”
His elbow smashed into the man’s nose, shattering the bone as a gout of blood spurted onto his sleeve. The man screamed as his head was flung back by the impact. His skull smacked against the car window, which didn’t break, but the rebound sent his face careening forwards again. Father DeMarco seized the man’s head and used the momentum to plow his face into the back of the front passenger seat, pulverizing the nasal bones that weren’t already broken. The driver, whose attention had been directed towards the sea of cars, barely had time to turn around before the priest vaulted over the wounded man, flung open the car door, and disappeared into the street.
Father DeMarco could feel the muscles in his chest convulsing as if he had just jumped into a pool of freezing water. His labored breaths burst from his lungs like machine gun fire, and his legs felt like jelly as he ran as hard as he could.
He was too shocked and horrified to notice, or even care, where he was going. His body was on autopilot, carrying him down dirty alleys, through throngs of people, down cascades of stone stairs. Every muscle in his trembling body screamed with pain, and a continuous blaze of lightning seemed to be separating the bones in his skull.
All of these sensations were like flickering images on a distant screen. He could only think of one thing as he ran.
What have I done?
The sickening sound of that man’s nose breaking rang in his ears, and the spouting blood ran red before his eyes. His heart ached with the double pain of tremendous exertion and the horror of the violence he had just committed.
After several minutes of blindly fleeing through the streets of Rome, he felt his body begin to falter. Waves of dizziness and nausea washed over his brain, and he stumbled against an ancient stone wall beside the river.
Finally, after what could have been seconds or minutes, the sickness subsided. The priest collapsed on the ground, every ounce of strength drained from his body. He passed in and out of consciousness as his eyes drifted lazily over the riverbank. He even felt too weak to pray.
The world began to fade…
A hand touched his shoulder, and he jumped. His first thought was that he no longer felt queasy and deflated, which meant that he had probably been asleep. He looked up, squinting in the glaring sun.
“Are you okay, Father?”
The priest tried to focus on the face, but sunlight broke through the clouds and stabbed directly into his eyes.
“Yes, yes,” he mumbled, “I’m fin
e.”
He made a pitiful attempt to stand up but crumpled to the ground. A pair of hands, small but strong, helped him to his feet. His legs felt wobbly but they did not give way, though he braced himself against the wall just in case. After taking a moment to catch his breath, he turned to the good Samaritan.
She was young and quite pretty, probably in her late teens, though Father DeMarco had always been horrible at guessing people’s ages. For a moment, though, she reminded him of…
“Are you sure you’re all right?” the girl asked.
Father DeMarco blinked. The image of Isabella vanished.
“Yes, my child,” he answered, his voice much more gentle and grateful. “I was just…I have a weak heart, and sometimes I push myself too far.”
The girl nodded, as if she already knew. “My father’s a doctor, and he would say that the only people with weak hearts are those who are afraid to test their limits. But he would also say that you should take care not to exert yourself.”
Father DeMarco managed a quick smile.
“Thank you, my child. And God bless you.”
The girl smiled gratefully, and turned to leave.
“Be careful out there,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
The girl nodded towards the domes and spires of the Vatican rising above the city a short distance away.
“It’s pretty ugly over there. Both sides are hungry for blood. It’s like they’re waiting for a reason to slaughter each other.”
Father DeMarco followed her gaze. He frowned and inhaled a deep, strengthening breath through his nose.
“The will of God is unshakable,” he said.
The girl nodded her agreement.
Father DeMarco looked back at her. “What is your name?”
“Sophia.”
“Sophia. An excellent name. God bless you and keep you, Sophia.”
The girl smiled and bowed her head. “And you too, Father.”
She ascended the stone steps that led up to the street and disappeared from view.
Father DeMarco watched her leave, then turned his attention to the Vatican skyline.
A wave of sadness and fury washed over his heart. Such divinity, and such corruption. Surely the angels in heaven wept every time they looked down upon the Holy City.
Now it was the prelude to Armageddon.
He glanced down at his sleeve. He saw the blood.
He knew there would be more to come.
He prayed as he started to walk.
Yea, though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I will fear no evil…
****
Julian felt like tearing his hair out. The voices in his head were relentless.
Be silent, damn you! I command you in the name of God to be silent!
Julian Rossa Monte, outcast, assassin. Pacing around a small stone room like a caged animal, waiting to be let out and stake his claim to greatness.
For the love of Christ, SHUT UP! Why won’t you shut up?
The voice inside his head cried out with such force that he nearly fell to the floor.
BECAUSE I AM NOT THE DEVIL, YOU STUPID CHILD!
The door burst open, and Master Ko’s anxious face peered in.
“Julian? Are you in here?”
Julian’s chest was heaving. What was going on?
His mouth spoke an automatic answer.
“Yes. I’m here.”
Master Ko crept into the dark room and shut the door.
“It is sheer insanity out there. There must be more than twenty thousand people in St. N...St. Peter’s Square. I can’t tell if there are more believers than heathens, but it’s going to be quite a storm.”
Julian felt the pangs of doubt more strongly than ever.
“So what now? I just stroll into the midst of the crowd and command the believers to follow me to storm the church and drive the devil worshipers out?”
Master Ko looked into his eyes and saw flickers of genuine, crippling fear. He had to act fast.
“No, no, nothing so foolhardy. I have learned of some information, something that most people don’t know.”
Julian leaned forward, though his face remained unchanged.
Master Ko licked his dry lips.
“They caught the brother of that assassin, the one who killed the Voice. They’re bringing him to Rome now. They’re going to...”
He paused for dramatic effect.
“They’re going to execute him in public.”
Julian’s eyes widened.
“In the square?”
Master Ko nodded.
Julian looked about him, as if searching for a weapon with which to lead the charge.
“But that will make everyone... The crowd will... It will be a war zone!”
Master Ko nodded gravely.
“And that is when you must lead.”
“How?” Julian pleaded. “Why would anyone follow me? I’m just like the rest of them. I’m not a saint… I’m not even a member of the clergy.”
Master Ko took Julian’s trembling hands in his and spoke with the gentle voice of a father.
“You are not like the rest of them, and they will all know it.”
Julian’s eyes sparkled with tears.
“How?”
Master Ko heaved a weary sigh. This time he wasn’t acting.
“I didn’t want to tell you this until the proper time. There was something else that I saw in my vision. Something so unbelievable that I didn’t dare mention it to you for fear that you would run away.”
Julian’s fear melted into curiosity. “Tell me, Father.”
“I...I am afraid, too, my son. Even my own heart doubts that this miracle is even possible.”
“Please, Father,” Julian begged, “tell me what I should do.”
Master Ko took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
“The world will know that you are God’s chosen vessel because the heavens shall obey your command.”
Julian didn’t move for several moments. Then his head jerked as if someone had slapped him across his face.
“What?”
****
Father DeMarco’s lungs felt like they were coated with acid. A dull, clutching pain was spreading across the entire length of his chest, and his weary mind barely had enough energy to realize that his leg muscles were on fire.
Not to mention that he was incredibly thirsty.
He was less than a mile from the Vatican, and he could sense the tension in the air. The streets were teeming with Satanists, Christians, and Roman citizens all attempting to push past each other or deliberately trying to cause conflict. More than half of the shops and storefronts were closed and shuttered, and the owners of the ones that remained open peered cautiously through their windows, likely considering closing up early as well. In the distance, several meandering trails of smoke rose into the sky like black tree branches. Sirens wailed and helicopters beat the air overhead.
Father DeMarco couldn’t yet see the furor in the square but he knew it must be unbelievable if there was this much chaos on the periphery. He struggled for breath as he pushed and shoved his way through the human morass, keeping his eye on the dome of the Templum Satanam.
St. Peter’s Basilica.
His screaming muscles and joints were ignored, as was his searing thirst. He only had one goal: he had to get into that square. He didn’t know what he would see there, but something was pulling him towards that great stone expanse.
A tightness in his gut told him that he would not like what he was going to find.
****
“Wake up. Hey. Hey! Wake up!”
The voice seemed to echo and reverberate around him, and Patric felt as if his entire body was wrapped in a warm, soft cocoon. Then a sharp, stinging slap across his cheek jerked him awake.
He glanced around wildly, fearful that he was already lashed to the stake with fire licking at his feet. But he couldn’t see anything. He figured that he was no longer
on a plane. He didn’t even know that he had dozed off. Or had he been drugged?
Either way, he was now in a room somewhere, and he wasn’t alone. He tried to move but his arms were firmly bound behind his back. He was sitting on a sofa of some kind, and his fingers brushed against the material.
Velvet.
Velvet?
Curtains were thrown back and dull, cloudy daylight streamed through the windows. Patric squinted and turned away, even though the light was quite weak. But it was enough to illuminate the room, which was a mixture of decadence and decay. Faded, moth-eaten paintings adorned the walls, and rats scurried beneath chairs that would have proudly supported a king’s portly frame. The impossibly intricate Persian rug was dusty and ragged, as were the curtains.
Yet the most shocking spectacle was the withered face peering down at him with eyes like a hawk. Patric’s body twitched with fright as the old woman leaned even closer. She was incredibly old, but Patric felt genuine terror in her presence. There were others behind her, and all were clad in dark robes.
Patric felt something rush past his feet, and he yelped with fright. The old crone scowled and glared at him. Patric tried to look away but he was mesmerized.
The old woman stood upright, and Patric slumped with relief. She turned to the others, but not before casting a contemptuous glance towards Patric.
“A pathetic child,” she spat. The other nodded, their faces as grim as hers.
Patric’s heart was pounding.
“Who are you?” he cried. “What do you want?”
The old woman sprang forward and slapped him viciously across the cheek.
“Silence, worm!”
Patric cringed as tears welled in his eyes. He feared her more than the squad leader who had promised his excruciating death.
