by Mark Carver
Corporal Baker’s right index finger twitched, as if stroking the trigger of a gun.
“I wouldn’t be in the Christian Militia if I thought peace and harmony were the only Christian virtues,” he answered. “Though I don't go looking for war, I also don’t believe in running from it if it happens to show up. The Bible is full of examples of God blessing men who fought for a righteous cause, even if it meant doing horrible things to their enemies. When I told your father I’d come help him fight, I knew I wasn’t just fighting his war. It was mine too. We were brothers in the Lord, and we’re all part of God’s family. And families fight for one another. It doesn’t matter who’s French or who’s American or on which side of the world the conflict is happening. I’m proud to take up arms in God’s name and I won’t put them down until He tells me to.”
He gestured towards the television. “But this…this gives me a bad feeling. I don’t know what’s going on over there but I don’t think it will end well for them or for us.”
Christine’s thoughts flashed back to Patric. The unspeakable agony he was forced to endure while hanging on that cross…
“I want to destroy it.”
Corporal Baker frowned as he leaned forward. “Destroy what?”
Christine turned and locked eyes with him. “The Temple of the Dragon.”
“The Temple… You mean the Temple of the Dragon?”
Christine nodded.
“But…but what about your father’s vision?”
“It’s dead,” she answered quickly as she looked away. Just like he is.
Corporal Baker looked flustered, but a sparkle of excitement shone in his eyes. “Can I ask why, miss?”
“Why? Because it is an abomination!”
Christine winced and grabbed her bruised ribs. Corporal Baker crossed over to her bed and helped her lie down. “I think we better rest for a couple more hours before we get moving.”
Christine heard the underlying message in his words. And it will give you time to reconsider your insane idea. But her mind was made up.
“I want to hit them where it hurts,” she continued. “Whether or not this second Christ is genuine, the church of Satan is clearly weak and frightened. Now is the time to strike back, to destroy the greatest symbol they have left. Paris is their Mecca, and it is also the place where their precious Voice was killed. If we can destroy the temple itself, they will have nothing.”
Even though every instinct was screaming in opposition, Corporal Baker had to admit that he was intrigued.
“It would certainly be a shot to the kneecaps,” he said, rubbing his stubbly chin thoughtfully. “But with everything going on lately, that place must be a fortress. They know it will be a target and they’ll spare no effort to keep it safe.”
“They took away our chance to have a place where we would be free to worship our God as we pleased. I don’t want to let them have what I do not.”
Corporal Baker regarded her for a long moment as logic fought with passion in his spirit. He squared his shoulders and a sly, even playful smile crept across his weathered face.
“Can’t say that I disagree with you. It’s not the fight me and my boys were looking for, but if it hits them devil-loving maniacs where it hurts, I’m all for it.”
His smile infected Christine as well. She wished more than anything that her father could have been there with them.
Despite the buzz of thoughts racing through her mind, she heard her conscience cry out, like a wild shot in the dark.
Would your father be proud to know that his daughter was becoming a terrorist?
Her smile wilted and she scowled. It’s not terrorism. It’s a surgical strike against a strategic target. It’s guerrilla warfare, pure and simple.
She definitely knew her father would have been proud of her military logic. Her conscience raised no further objections.
Noticing the change in her expression, Corporal Baker peered at her. “You okay?”
Christine looked up quickly. “Yes, of course. We need to leave soon. We have much we need to do.”
“You sure you can travel?”
Christine swung her legs over the bed and practically leaped to her feet. Every muscle in her body screamed with sudden pain but she managed to disguise it behind a silent mask of determination.
Corporal Baker’s eyebrows rose. “All right, then. To the train station.”
As they exited the hotel without attracting any attention, Christine felt a tingle rush through her bruised limbs. Her conscience also found its voice again.
You’re crazy. You know that, don’t you?
This time, she had to agree.
****
Patric had been through a lot in the past few weeks. He had nearly been killed by his own brother who had murdered the Voice of Satan in cold blood. His fiancée had vanished, taking the child that he thought was his with her. He had been chased, beaten, shot at, and finally crucified in front of thousands in St. Nero’s Square.
He had suffered through what most men could only imagine. But none of that compared to the terror he felt right now.
His eyes whipped back and forth, and his bandaged palms were practically dripping with sweat. Now he understood what Father DeMarco meant about Daniel and the lion’s den.
He felt like a black stone on a white, spotless beach, exposed and unprotected. Vulnerable. Father DeMarco had assured him that he had nothing to fear from the priests and cardinals making their way to the Vatican, but his twirling stomach remained unconvinced as he marched in their midst.
The stream of robed figures proceeded down Via della Conciliazione and began pouring into the square. Patric had no idea how many there were, but there were at least one hundred clergymen who had answered Julian’s summons. No one harassed them as Julian had promised, though the streets were lined with a mix of supporters and protesters, as well as a significant police presence. The authorities clearly wanted to avoid any conflict, even if it meant acquiescing to the demands of the terrorist inside the Vatican.
Patric wore no robes, and he wished he had some way to hide his wounded hands. He was afraid that at any moment, a heavy hand would clamp down on his shoulder and spin him around. His heart told him that he had nothing to fear from being recognized, but it was all he could do to keep from ducking into a dark alley. He was surprised that no one questioned his presence in the procession when he was clearly not a priest. Perhaps he had been recognized and that was why he was permitted to march with the church leaders.
Do they think I’m on their side? he wondered. Just because he was crucified for his blood relationship to the most infamous assassin in recent memory did not make him a card-carrying member of the Christian church. He forgot his fear as he followed his thoughts.
If I renounced Satan, does that mean I must follow God? “The enemy of my enemy…” and all that? I can’t become an agnostic or an atheist, and I’m not interested in other world religions…
So what am I?
His thoughts burst like a balloon as he stepped into the empty square that bore the name of St. Peter once again. The rubble of St. Nero’s Obelisk had been cleared away, though the jagged stump remained. But that wasn’t the most obvious reminder of Julian’s power.
Ringing the square like a row of scorched hedges were the burned-out hulks of military vehicles, blackened into charcoal. Several charred corpses were scattered around the wreckage. No one had dared to try to remove them after Julian’s miraculous display of power.
The aftermath of that night of violence was clearly having an effect on the clerics as they entered the square and huddled together like a flock of birds. Patric stuck close to Father DeMarco, glancing around and wondering where exactly his cross had been erected. This square was one of the last places he wanted to be.
He threw a glance back to the entrance of the piazza. The police had formed a human barricade around the entire perimeter. Right now, the city officials were only interested in containing whoever, or whatever,
was inside.
The fearful group came to a halt about fifty meters from the church facade. For nearly ten minutes, nothing happened. The cluster of priests, bishops, cardinals, and other assorted church leaders whispered and murmured to one another. Several prayed in languages that Patric didn’t recognize. Thankfully, no one approached him, though he was sure he spotted a few glances of recognition. The suspense was agonizing; he almost wanted to cry out, “Yes, he was my brother!”
His hands were itching furiously and he longed to just tear the bandages off and scrape his palms raw on the ground. When Father DeMarco had changed the bandages, he had forced himself to survey the damage, even though he wanted to shut his eyes tight and turn away like a child getting a vaccination shot. But he had watched every moment, stifling the bile that rose at the sight of the savage hole in his palms. As the priest dressed his wounds, he had to bite his tongue to keep from screaming in pain. He knew he would never regain complete use of his hands. He would probably never be able to use them again at all.
The confused and anxious faces around him stoked his irritation. What suffering had they endured? The loss of their church to Satanist attacks and the scattering of their adoring congregation? Losing some precious trinkets that were probably counterfeit anyway? They all looked relatively well-fed and didn’t exhibit any signs of violence. Patric stifled a snort of contempt. These pious relics claimed such overwhelming persecution, but it was probably more of a loss of face and vanity than anything. Had they ever narrowly survived public execution? Were they facing a crippling disability?
Had they ever had their family ripped away from them?
Patric turned and saw Father DeMarco staring straight at him. He could see the answer to his questions in the priest’s eyes.
Yes.
Before Patric’s feelings could transform into something else, a sound grabbed everyone’s attention.
Bells. Victorious, celebratory church bells.
The eyes of the crowd scanned the square, but no one could see any bells. It was common knowledge that the Vatican bells had been ripped from their perch and publicly demolished in the assault on the Vatican following the Manifestation. So how could they be ringing now?
Patric figured it must have been a recording playing over a PA system, but the sound was so clear and vibrant, he could practically taste the metallic clanging in the air. Whatever was causing it was making quite a stir amongst the clerics. Their creased and worried faces brightened and many looked towards the gray sky, whispering words of thanks.
Except Father DeMarco. His face remained dark, and he kept his gaze riveted to Patric’s. His eyes seemed to say: Don’t get too excited. It’s a trick, nothing more.
Patric didn’t know how to react to the sound of the bells, so he just remained still and watched the facade of the Templum Satannam.
St. Peter’s. It’s St. Peter’s Church now, not the Temple of Satan.
He cocked one eyebrow.
Are you so sure?
He glanced back at the wall of police circling the square just beyond the massive rows of marble columns. Helicopters hovered around the border of the Vatican grounds. Patric could sense their anxiety. He was sure the Italian officials would love nothing more than to bomb the Vatican into rubble, and they still might. The Italian government claimed neutrality when it came to religion, but the Satanists in the Parliament had to be salivating at the knowledge that most, if not all of Europe’s remaining Christian clergy were gathered in one poorly-defended place with only the threat of supernatural violence protecting them.
Patric’s heart began pounding with panic. This was madness, stupidity. He didn’t care about any of it; he just wanted to live. Only death awaited him here. He glanced around like a caged animal, looking for an easy path through the bodies surrounding him.
The clanging bells fell silent. Everyone turned in unison towards the facade of St. Peter’s.
The sanctuary doors opened with agonizing slowness. Patric squinted his eyes in the fading light as he watched a small robed figure emerge from the church and walk towards the group of clergymen. The men clustered closer together, reminding Patric of frightened children. These were the leaders of the so-called “true church?”
The figure approached them and came to a stop only a few meters away. Patric could see that he was quite short and looked to be extremely old. His ancient face was scored with wrinkles like a piece of paper that had been folded dozens of times. He seemed to be of Asian descent, but it was hard to tell in the meager light.
Master Ko spread his hands wide and a pleasant smile appeared on his face.
“Welcome, brothers. I am Father Shen, humble servant to His Holiness, Julianus Secundus Christi.”
He crossed himself reverently and several of the clerics followed suit, though their motions were confused and mechanical. No one appeared to be relaxed, and the clerics kept glancing around, as if afraid that a swarm of assailants would swoop down on them at any moment.
Master Ko smiled inwardly at their baffled expressions. They are all just children, he thought to himself.
With a grand sweep of his hand, he gestured towards the majestic building behind him.
“Please follow me inside,” he said, then turned and started walking back towards the church.
The clergymen exchanged worried looks, then fell into step behind him. Patric leaned close to Father DeMarco and whispered, “What is happening?”
The priest’s face was bleak. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen that man before, and I’ve met most of the clergy in Italy. Stay close to me, and don’t speak to anyone.”
Whatever remained of Patric’s will to flee dissipated as he walked beside the priest. He felt strangely comforted to have Father DeMarco by his side, but as they approached the looming facade, he couldn’t help the feeling that they were walking into a dragon’s mouth.
Master Ko led the procession into the sanctuary. Without turning around, he could sense the clerics’ hesitation as they stepped inside. They were expecting blasphemous images and Satanic icons, but he grinned as he heard their gasps of surprise.
The glory of St. Peter’s shone once more. Despite the deepening twilight, the sanctuary practically glowed. Patric half-expected to hear a chorus of angels as they marched down the center aisle towards the largest altar that he had ever seen. He had been dragged through this very sanctuary only a few days ago on the way to his crucifixion, but he had been too terrified to notice anything except the infernal majesty of the diabolical icons. Now he couldn’t believe that this was even the same place.
Crosses and crucifixes gleamed from the walls, which were now bare since the Satanic tapestries had been torn down. A brand-new altar of carved wood and sculpted gold stretched across the chancel, upon which a sea of candles shimmered and swayed. The marble steps were severely damaged but the brilliance of the altar commanded everyone’s full attention.
The vaulted ceiling of the sanctuary was hardly visible from the ground and Patric wondered if the famed frescoes depicting Satan’s glory had been covered. But what been changed was quite impressive, considering how the sanctuary looked only a few short days before.
Patric quickly drew in his breath. Where were the people who had pulled this off? He hadn’t seen anyone but the mysterious Father Shen, and the nave seemed as silent as a tomb.
Patric smirked as he marched in step with the others. I’m walking to my grave, and I’m not even sure why.
His muscles remained tense, and the fact that he hadn’t been yanked out of the pious procession still gnawed at him. The awestruck clergymen paid him no mind, and even Father DeMarco seemed to be lost in the spectacle. Yet with each step he took, Patric felt a shadow growing in his heart. Even the sanctuary itself seemed to be growing darker, despite the fact that they were approaching the candle-strewn altar.
Master Ko stopped at the front of the sanctuary, then turned to face the clerics.
“Welcome to St. Peter’s Basilica,” he said
with a smile in his voice. “As you can see, the devil has been cast out and this is once again the house of the Lord.”
As if on cue, all of the clergymen knelt down and genuflected. Patric awkwardly followed suit, though he touched his shoulders in the wrong order. He glanced quickly at Father DeMarco. The priest’s eyes were shut and he seemed to be praying feverishly.
Master Ko waited for a reverent moment, then spoke with a strong, clear voice. “Brothers, please follow me to the refectory where your evening meal awaits.”
The clergymen murmured to one another but no one raised their voice. As they filed through a narrow doorway, Patric leaned close to Father DeMarco’s ear.
“Father – “
“Shh!”
Patric clamped his mouth shut and followed the train of robed priests and cardinals. They were led through lavish corridors and grand lobbies, past towering arcades and curtains that looked like they could blanket a stadium. All this grandeur was lost on Patric as he fought against a growing feeling of dread and terror. The others around him looked cautious and uncertain but he couldn’t see outright fear on anyone’s faces. Father DeMarco’s expression was unreadable, but Patric knew the priest’s mind was working furiously.
The mysterious Asian man led them into a soaring banquet hall where several tables had been set with dinnerware. Each table was at least fifty feet long and could seat dozens. At each place setting was a spoon, cloth napkin, cup of water, and a large bowl of steaming broth. The aroma in the air was pleasant and Patric’s stomach growled, but alarms were ringing in his head. A quick survey of the room revealed no one except for the clerics and the man who called himself Father Shen.
Master Ko raised his arms and said with a warm smile, “Please sit.”
The clerics obeyed, and Father DeMarco and Patric followed suit. No one touched their food; they looked with anxious and expectant faces towards Master Ko.
The elder pressed his hands together in front of his chest and closed his eyes. The clergymen bowed their heads with a rustling sound that filled the hall, and Master Ko spoke in a low, heavy tone.
