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

by Mark Carver

  “Quemadmodum multiplicasti misericordiam tuam Deus filii autem hominum in tegmine alarum tuarum sperabunt inebriabuntur ab ubertate domus tuae et torrente voluntatis tuae potabis eos.”

  Master Ko then lifted his head and gestured once more. “Eat.”

  The clergymen glanced at one another, then one by one, they lifted cautious spoonfuls of soup to their lips. Those who tasted it instantly brightened, and encouraged their comrades with smiles. Within moments, the room echoed with the sounds of hungry mouths slurping the broth and murmuring to one another about the spare but delicious flavor.

  Father DeMarco regarded his bowl like it was full of maggots. Patric tried to share his hesitation, but he could ignore his stomach no longer. His thumb poked out through the bandages on his right hand, and with a bit of difficulty and pain, he was able to pinch the end of the spoon and dip it into the soup bowl. He lifted a small spoonful to his lips and immediately realized the reason for the cleric’s beaming faces. The soup was incredible. He couldn’t determine its contents, except that it was a flavorful blend of meat, vegetables, milk, herbs, and spices. The taste wasn’t particularly strong but it was undeniable. Patric looked around again, hoping to catch sight of any servants or staff. Only the ancient priest stood at the front of room, watching the feast like a grandmother enjoying the sight of her family devouring a meal she had labored hard to prepare.

  The mood in the room gradually began to lighten and became relaxed, even jovial. The clerics smiled and chatted in between mouthfuls of broth. The soup bowls were quite large and Patric doubted anyone could finish its contents, but he noticed several portly priests tilting their bowls and spooning the last remaining drops into their greedy mouths. Master Ko also noticed, and he scooped up a large pitcher on a table near the front of the room and began meandering around the hall, filling bowls that were at or near empty. He didn’t speak to anyone, merely smiling and nodding and shuffling off to fill the next empty bowl.

  Patric could feel himself starting to become full, though his bowl still contained quite a bit of soup. He looked over at Father DeMarco seated next to him. The priest hadn’t touched his spoon.

  After several minutes, there was the loud clatter of silverware being set down on the table. The full-bellied clergymen settled back in their comfortable chairs, smiling and speaking quietly to each other. It was as if they had forgotten about the army outside and the powerful madman who was lurking somewhere inside these walls.

  Patric gasped as someone grabbed the back of his chair. He whirled around to stare into Master Ko’s piercing eyes.

  “Monsieur Bourdon,” the old man said in Parisian-accented French, “welcome to the Vatican. I trust you are recovering from your deplorable ordeal.”

  Patric gulped, unable to tear his eyes away from the old man’s gaze. He feebly nodded his head and lifted his bandaged hands. “I am all right.”

  Master Ko smiled warmly. “Excellent. We are honored that you have graced us with your presence tonight.”

  With a curt nod of his head, the old man released his claw-like grip on Patric’s chair and walked off. Patric frowned and looked at Father DeMarco. He expected to meet the priest’s gaze but instead he found his eyes shut tight and his lips moving with fervent, silent prayers.

  Patric’s heart was pounding, though he wasn’t sure why. He wondered if the broth had been poisoned, but no one seemed to exhibit any ill effects, and he felt silly for even considering such a notion. Although if this was indeed one big Satanic ruse, this would be a perfect opportunity to wipe out the top levels of the Christian church…

  You’ve watched too many movies, he chastised himself. Though compared to what he had seen and been through in the last few weeks, a murderous conspiracy involving poisoned broth seemed pretty tame.

  He was jolted out of his thoughts by Master Ko’s gentle yet powerful voice.

  “My brothers, I trust that you are refreshed.”

  The clergymen nodded their agreement. Master Ko smiled, though it seemed as if a shadow flickered across his face.

  “Now if you will follow me,” he went on, “His Holiness requests an audience with all of you.”

  He motioned towards large double doors set in the left wall near the front of the hall. The clerics rose to their feet. Patric stood up, glancing nervously towards the priest beside him. Father DeMarco also got out of his chair, though he never once looked at Master Ko. He kept his eyes riveted to the candles flickering on the table.

  The clerics filed out of their seats, though their movements and facial expressions conveyed a sense of ease and reassurance that had been absent when they had entered the room with anxious hearts and empty stomachs. Yet they still huddled close together and glanced warily into the shadows that loomed all around them. Patric noticed that the halls and corridors were illuminated with very dim light from unseen sources, though he frequently spotted candelabras burning brightly in little nooks and enclaves. It was all very melodramatic, but what struck Patric most was the silence. The clergymen made quite a bit of noise as they shuffled along, but the sound seemed to be swallowed by the darkness around them. He expected there to be endless echoes and reverberations, but it was as if the walls were made of carpet rather than stone.

  There was still no one else to be seen.

  As they rounded a corner, several clerics gasped with recognition. Whispers of “Sala Reglia” and “Sistine Chapel” arose from the group. Patric couldn’t understand what they said since they spoke in Latin or in their native tongues, but he recognized these words.

  Master Ko halted and turned before the closed doors of the chapel. His eyes seemed to reflect an unseen light.

  “His Holiness,” he announced with the pomp of a royal herald, “the second messiah, Julianus Secundus Christi.”

  He flung the doors open wide and stepped aside. The clerics instinctively jumped back, as if expecting something ferocious to leap out. They milled about and murmured nervously; no one wanted to the first one to step inside the sacred chapel. Patric raised himself on his toes to peer over their agitated heads, hoping to see what was inside, but all he could see was darkness. That certainly didn’t help the clerics’ confidence.

  A voice rang out from the void, strong and fierce.

  “Enter!”

  Patric thought the voice didn’t sound anything like the man he had seen on the television. He almost expected bright flashes of fire to blaze out from the darkness and a giant disembodied head to materialize out of the smoke.

  The clergymen were clearly afraid, but they were even more afraid of disobeying the man who commanded the sun. They crowded through the door, and those behind pushed the ones in front. Patric was swept up in the crush of robes along with Father DeMarco beside him. When all of the clergymen were inside the chapel, he heard the massive doors creak shut behind him.

  Master Ko grinned into the shadows.

  Spectacle…

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Everything was darkness.

  This is what it must feel like to be blind, Patric thought. His eyes were useless and his ears were bombarded by an assault of sounds: shuffling feet, rustling robes, panting breaths, jittery prayers, clacking rosary beads.

  He felt many bodies brushing up against him, but he didn’t know which one was Father DeMarco. He chided himself for being childish, but he couldn’t help it. He was terrified.

  Then, there was light.

  Patric’s bandaged hands immediately flew to his ears, trying to squeeze out the deafening vibration that invaded his skull. The pain was so sudden and intense, it sucked the air from his lungs. He couldn’t scream; he could only crouch down, lost among the rustling robes.

  He didn’t see the brilliant orb of light descend from the ceiling of the chapel like a giant weightless crystal. The clerics shielded their eyes as they gasped with disbelief. The light was an icy blue, but it radiated warmth and safety. The awestruck clergymen watched the light fold into itself, then blossom like a flower, revealing
the loveliest woman they had ever seen. Reverent whispers of “Santa Maria!” arose from trembling lips.

  Father DeMarco was petrified. His limbs shook and his head felt like two giant hands were trying to rip his skull in half. He didn’t notice Patric groveling on the floor in even more agony than he felt.

  He watched the grotesque figure hovering above them pull its black, shriveled lips back into a sinister smile, revealing a mouthful of rotting teeth. The beast stretched its arms wide in a gesture of welcome, and the clerics fell on their knees. Only Father DeMarco remained standing, though he felt as if the smallest gust of wind would topple him.

  The monstrous demon grinned wickedly at the prostrate forms trembling beneath her. Then her putrid yellow eyes locked onto the priest, who trembled but did not bow. She could see the fear written on his face, but she also saw something else.

  A challenge.

  She drew in a gurgling breath, then vanished like a mirage. Darkness once again claimed the chapel, but only for a moment. At the far end of the chamber, several ornate candelabras sprang to life. The flickering flames illuminated a giant tapestry bearing a simple golden cross. Beneath the cross was the throne of St. Peter’s, and seated on the throne was Julianus Secundus Christi, the man who commanded the sun.

  Like children scurrying for the best seat at a puppet show, the clergymen surged forward in one giant mass, leaving Father DeMarco and Patric in their wake.

  The ear-splitting hum inside his head had vanished along with the woman in black, and Patric rose shakily to his feet. He noticed Father DeMarco standing straight as a board and shaking like a leaf.

  “Father,” he whispered through the clenched teeth, gripping the priest’s shoulders. “Father, are you all right?”

  Father DeMarco blinked three times, then winced and clutched his head with a moan. Patric caught him as he sank to the floor.

  Not him too…

  He looked up and saw the commotion at the front of the chamber. His blood went cold.

  The man seated on the throne, the one who called himself the second Christ, was looking right at him.

  Words of adoration and praise issuing from the clerics’ mouths reached Julian’s ears, but he wasn’t really listening to them. His attention was fixed on the two figures near the door. He instantly recognized the formerly crucified half-brother of the assassin who had sent the Voice of Satan down to hell, and he was cradling the priest who had denounced Julian in St. Peter’s Square.

  Neither of them looked very formidable at the moment.

  Looking down at the fawning clerics kneeling before his throne, he smiled thinly and opened his arms.

  “Brothers in the Lord,” he said in Latin, “do not lay your praises at my feet. Give thanks to our Father in heaven.”

  He turned and reverently lifted his hands towards the cross embroidered into the tapestry. The golden threads shimmered like molten metal in the candlelight. The clergymen looked upon the sacred symbol and they all crossed themselves in unison.

  Julian’s gaze once again traveled the length of the chamber and came to rest on Patric and Father DeMarco. His eyes were like a hawk’s.

  Patric felt an icy chill crawl across his skin.

  ****

  Lieutenant Mitchell’s footsteps sounded like wet drumbeats as he paced across the slick concrete floor. His comrades watched him walk back and forth like a metronome.

  “Come on Chuck,” one of them finally said. “It’s only been two days. No reason to get all fidgety.”

  Lieutenant Mitchell didn’t break his pacing. He checked his watch, shaking his head as he read the time. 11:40 pm. “There’s been no contact,” he lamented. “You know Corporal Baker, Mister ‘Check-in-every-hour-on-the-hour.’ He should have called at least once.”

  Another soldier waved the cell phone. “These aren’t very secure…we don’t know who might be listening. Maybe he’s keeping radio silence because he doesn’t want to take the chance that someone will figure out where we are.”

  Much to his comrades’ relief, Lieutenant Mitchell halted his pacing. He faced the men with a worried expression. “So how long do we wait? One more day? A week? Just trust that he’s in God’s hands and that whatever happens is God’s will?”

  The soldiers glanced at each other and shrugged. Lieutenant Mitchell threw up his hands and resumed his frustrated march.

  “You’re our leader while he’s gone, Chuck,” the first soldier piped up. “It’s your call what we do.”

  Lieutenant Mitchell sat down and ran his hands through his close-cropped hair. “We never should have come here,” he said to the floor. “This was a mistake from day one.”

  “Chuck…” the soldier said in a low, almost disappointed tone. “Lieutenant, Corporal Baker believed in this mission. We can’t lose faith now, especially since we don’t even know what’s happened to him. He could be on his way here right now…”

  “Or he could already be here.”

  Every head whipped around to see Corporal Baker stroll into the large room, followed by an attractive but wounded young woman.

  Lieutenant Mitchell, feeling a little embarrassed, leaped to his feet and snapped a salute. “Good to see you back safely, sir.”

  Corporal Baker returned the salute, then gestured to Christine standing behind him.

  “Gentlemen, this is Christine Jeraque, daughter of the late Captain Claude Jeraque. As you know, Captain Jeraque and I were old friends and this is why I offered our services when he reached out. Unfortunately, Christine here is all that remains of the French fighting force that we were expecting to be working with.”

  Lieutenant Mitchell’s eyes bulged. “You mean they’re all dead?”

  Corporal Baker shot him an icy glare. “Show some respect, son. This young lady here has just lost her father and as you can see, she’s been through a lot recently.”

  Lieutenant Mitchell’s eyes dropped. “My apologies, miss. I’m just surprised to hear…”

  “It’s all right,” Christine answered, straightening her spine and facing the men. She admirably concealed the pain she felt in her ribs, and in her heart. “I know this is very disappointing news for all of you. But it is true. My father is dead, and so are all of the men under his command.”

  “Not all of them, miss,” Corporal Baker said. “We found one soldier still alive when we combed through the compound. Private Chevallais.”

  Christine’s face radiated a tiny bit of hope. “Yes, I remember you telling me. Where is he?”

  “He’s in our makeshift triage,” Corporal Baker answered. “And that’s where you are going too. We need to get you patched up properly.”

  Christine nodded and followed two of the soldiers out of the room. Lieutenant Mitchell watched her go, then turned to his superior.

  “Corporal, a word.”

  Corporal Baker dismissed the others with a wave, then turned to face Lieutenant Mitchell’s stern expression.

  “Sir, what in God’s name are we going to do?” the lieutenant said through clenched teeth. “The whole reason we came over here was to fight for a little piece of religious freedom for these people, and now they’re all dead. This isn’t our country, sir, and the way I see it, we don’t have any reason to stay.”

  “On the contrary,” Corporal Baker answered with a sly smile, “we’ve got an excellent reason.”

  “What?” Lieutenant Mitchell’s tone conveyed his skepticism. “…Sir?” he added quickly.

  Corporal Baker let a moment of silence hover in the air, then he leaned forward and spoke in a hushed tone.

  “We’re going to Paris to blow up the Temple of the Dragon.”

  Lieutenant Mitchell’s jaw almost hit the floor.

  ****

  As he cradled Father DeMarco’s trembling form, Patric could feel Julian’s withering gaze on his shoulders. He didn’t know what was wrong with the priest, and he was in shock himself after witnessing the manifestation of the woman in black inside one of the holiest chambers on ea
rth. He was also shocked that no one else could see the demonic woman for what she really was. How could a hideous monster from the depths of hell be mistaken for the Virgin Mother?

  This realization made him fearful to raise his eyes, but he knew he had to. Wrapping his arms tightly around the frail priest’s shoulders, they both rose to their feet. Father DeMarco moaned with pain and kept his hands glued to the sides of his head. The source of his agony seemed to be internal rather than a reaction to demonic manifestations, as Patric’s was.

  Across the grand chamber, Julian arose from his throne, towering above the clerics before him. With a slow, casual stride, he descended the marble steps that fanned out beneath the throne. The clergymen nervously looked up, then scuttled away as he drew near, opening a path for him

  Julian strode towards Father DeMarco and Patric like a conquering king. A humorless smile curled his lips and a strange light flashed in his eyes. Patric braced himself, waiting for the agonizing hum to return at any moment. He was certain that Julian was host to a demon, like Tourec had been. Perhaps an entire horde. But as he drew closer, the air remained calm. Too calm, in fact. It was as if Julian had sucked every sound from the chamber. Even the fidgety clergymen behind him seemed frozen.

  Patric tightened his grip on Father DeMarco’s shoulders, keeping his eyes fixed on the approaching figure. A thousand conflicting messages rocketed through his brain.

  Run! Strike first! Kneel! Confess! Pray!

  Patric frowned.

  Pray?

  He smothered a gasp as Julian now stood only one meter away. Father DeMarco’s head was still bowed in pain, and Patric felt like he was bearing the weight of both men’s souls as he stared into the eyes of the most powerful man on earth.

  Words came out of Patric’s mouth before he could stop them.

  “Thank you for your hospitality, Your Holiness.”

  Julian nodded his appreciation. “I am honored that you have come, Monsieur Bourdon. Your courage and sacrifice are an inspiration to us all.”