by Mark Carver
There was no hesitation in the clerics’ applause. Patric kept his arms folded, watching Julian soak up the praise with a beaming smile.
He sounds more like a motivational speaker than the second Christ, he grumbled to himself. He couldn’t see the clerics’ faces, but he knew from their enthusiastic reaction that his words had struck a chord with them.
Greedy bastards. They don’t care about God’s kingdom on earth; they just want their precious cathedrals and butts in the pews and coins in the coffers. They want things to be just like they were before.
As the applause died down, Julian’s eyes swept across the sanctuary.
“But all this comes with a price. Things cannot be as they were before.”
Patric’s blood ran cold. Julian continued without missing a beat.
“Our world has been touched by the hand of the devil. We live in a new reality. The question of whether or not God and Satan are real does not exist anymore. But we are confronted with another, more frightening question: whom will you serve? We have seen the heathen hordes flock to the enemy like flies to rotten meat, forsaking the church that has nurtured them for centuries. And when Satanic madness gripped the world and civilized people began committing unspeakable atrocities, those who stood up for righteousness were cast down and trampled. No one wanted to hear the voice of reason and morality. What was once unthinkable and unspeakable became normal. Mankind’s carnality became rampant, and the sacred places of the world became magnets for blasphemers and defilers. We watched in helpless horror as our church was overcome by bloodthirsty mobs and heathen hordes. A dark shroud of obscenity and profanity fell over our world, and God’s children were forced to flee into the shadows, worshiping in secret for fear of persecution. Brothers, these are the same conditions that the early church faced. In the face of persecution, faith is refined, crystallized, purged of weakness and doubt. You have been toiling in the desert for twelve long years, crying out to God to know when He will restore his bride. I am here to tell you that today, your prayers have been answered. I, Julianus Secundus Christi, have been sent by God to usher in a new era, to bring heaven to Earth."
The clergymen leaped to their feet. They clapped and whistled and shouted praises in a multitude of languages. Patric also rose from his seat, but his hands remained by his sides. Of course, clapping with hands that had large nail-shaped holes in the palms wouldn’t have been a good idea anyway, but only one word flashed across his mind.
Lies.
The brief history lesson had been the truth, of course, but something lurched and twisted in Patric’s soul as Julian’s final words rang out. There would be no heaven on Earth as long as that grotesque demon witch jerked his strings.
Patric wasn’t sure why, but the false promises flowing from this lips of this imposter grated on his soul like sandpaper on an open wound. He wanted what Father DeMarco had tried to do – he wanted someone to denounce this man before the world, to rip off the mask and reveal the ugliness that lay beneath.
So naturally he was shocked beyond belief to find himself on his feet, muscles flexed, preparing to point an accusatory finger at the smiling charlatan.
A firm hand fell on his shoulder and immediately pressed him down into his seat. He jerked his head back to look into the eyes of the Asian priest.
“Be still, Monsieur Bourdon,” Master Ko said softly, digging his fingers into Patric’s shoulder, “if you ever want to see Natasha again.”
****
“I’m so sorry about Captain Jeraque,” Private Chevallais said, his voice choked with sobs. “I should have been there. I should have been keeping watch – “
“Shh,” Christine said, clasping his hand in hers. “You fought bravely. No one knew what was coming, and we can only trust that it was God’s will. I know my papa is in heaven now, and he is happy.”
Private Chevallais nodded slowly, though his face was still contorted with a soldier’s regret.
“The American medic tells me that I can move around tomorrow. What will we do?”
Christine sniffed away a tear that she hadn’t been able to hold back. “We must abandon our original mission. There is no way for us to seize and secure a place for us to live and worship in peace. Even with the Americans here, we don’t have enough manpower to mobilize an attack.”
“So that’s it? Just send the Americans home and we go to whatever families we have left?”
Christine shook her head, though she didn’t say anything for a moment. “We…we have a new mission.”
Private Chevallais propped himself up on his elbow. “What mission?”
Silence seemed to vibrate in the air. Christine could feel the soldier’s eyes drilling into hers. When she had told Corporal Baker about her new plan, she had felt bold, confident, assured of success. But now, talking with a fellow Frenchman, the whole idea sounded rash, even silly.
Then the image of her father lying on the floor in a pool of blood flashed across her mind.
“We’re going to Paris,” she declared darkly, “to destroy the Temple of the Dragon.”
Private Chevallais held her gaze. His face was as motionless as a stone.
“Good,” he said. “I always hated that place.”
Christine couldn’t help but smile. The soldier’s mouth twitched, but his expression remained severe.
“So how will we accomplish this?”
“Corporal Baker has agreed to help us. I know this isn’t what he was expecting but he seems like the kind of person who hates sitting around doing nothing. And it would be rude to send them home with nothing to show for it, right?”
Private Chevallais couldn’t help but be infected by Christine’s mischievous smile. “Of course. We must show them our legendary French hospitality.” Then he became serious again. “But we cannot kill innocent people, Christine. That is something your father was adamant about. We are freedom fighters, never terrorists.”
Christine nodded and lowered her eyes. “I know, Phillippe. I’ve thought about this, and prayed about this for a long time. I know God would love to see that wicked temple fall to the ground, and I am sure my father would agree that we should take any opportunity we have to strike. This is an exciting time for our church, but we must act quickly and decisively. Have you heard what is going on in Rome?”
“Only a little. I’ve been trapped in here for days, and my English is not as good as yours, I’m afraid. I’m left mostly to myself, since I don’t have anything to contribute anymore.”
He waved his arm, displaying the bandage that shrouded the remains of his hand. “My fighting days are over before they began,” he said, a trace of bitterness in his weak laughter. “I’m no good to anyone now.”
Christine shushed him as she placed her hand on his shoulder. “Phillippe, until you are sitting with my father before the throne of God, you are useful to everyone here. We follow a God who can help us overcome any challenge and can use us in spite of our weaknesses.”
Private Chevallais smiled again. “Merci, Christine. I can see so much of your father in you.”
Christine’s face brightened despite the sorrow that shone in her eyes. “He was everything to me. And we will go to Paris and turn that wicked place into dust and ashes.”
“Amen.”
Christine and Private Chevallais turned towards the door as Corporal Baker entered the room. He wore a curious smile, like a teacher who was proud of his students.
“Corporal Baker,” Christine greeted him. Private Chevallais raised his wounded hand in salute.
The American returned the salute and looked at them with stern eyes. “From the international news reports, it looks like the whole continent is going bananas. Christians and Satanists are fighting each other in the streets; churches and temples alike are being burned to the ground. It’s nice to see Christians finally standing up for themselves but I don’t like the looks of what I’m seeing. It’s just anarchy out there. Maybe some order will come out of this assembly the new pope has orga
nized, but I think we need to carry out our strike as soon as possible.”
Private Chevallais frowned, comprehending only fragments of Corporal Baker’s words, but Christine nodded her agreement. “You are right, Corporal. The Satanists have already lost the Vatican; if they lose Paris, they will have nothing. It’s our best chance to demoralize them.”
“But no innocents,” Private Chevallais piped up. Corporal Baker looked at him for a moment, then nodded once.
“Of course. We’re not terrorists.”
Private Chevallais glanced at Christine, who held his gaze while addressing Corporal Baker.
“We need to put a plan together.”
Corporal Baker swept his hand towards the door. “After you, mademoiselle.”
Christine took a step forward, then stopped. “Private Chevallais should come too. You will need as many Frenchmen as possible.”
Corporal Baker looked at the private, who had already swung his legs out of the bed.
“Ready for duty, soldier?”
Private Chevallais nodded enthusiastically. “Oui. More than ready.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Patric didn’t hear anything Julian said. He didn’t even know if the Asian priest who called himself Father Shen was still behind him. He just slumped in his seat, staring at the cherry wood grain of the pew in front of him.
A thousand questions blazed in his mind like a wildfire, but he didn’t have the emotional strength to ask them. The sliver of logic that managed to penetrate his thoughts called Father Shen himself into doubt. How did he know the old priest was telling the truth?
His panic shot back: How did the old priest know about Natasha in the first place?
The answer was all too obvious. The person responsible for taking her away was here in the Vatican.
If she could be called a person at all…
Patric raised his eyes and looked beyond the pew, as if noticing Julian for the first time. The self-proclaimed “second Christ” was pacing in front of the altar, still babbling in English, though he frequently threw out esoteric Latin phrases. His body language and the clerics’ rapt attention informed Patric that he was still riding the wave of feel-good promises that he had used to launch his campaign. The man was certainly enthusiastic, and Patric supposed that from the clerics’ perspective, a confident, outspoken Christian would be quite a breath of fresh air.
Not to mention that he had supernatural, and lethal, powers. Patric’s eyes darkened. No matter what he promised, even if he was able to deliver, it was all a lie. This pretend savior was anointed not by God, but by the devil, and it was the devil and his slaves that had reduced Patric’s life to ashes.
He smirked. He wanted God to win if for no other reason than to watch the devil lose.
His breath turned to ice in his lungs. There was a presence behind him. Fearful of another bony hand clamping down on his shoulder, he whirled around, ready for anything.
He gasped. “Father!”
Father DeMarco waved his hand weakly, shooing away Patric’s questions. His face was drawn and pale, with dark rings under his eyes. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept in days. A strange state to be in, considering he had just been healed of a crippling affliction.
Patric was aching to know where the priest had disappeared off to, but he could see from his expression that Father DeMarco wasn’t interested in talking. His haggard countenance only increased Patric’s anxiety, who was now fully convinced that coming here had been a grave mistake.
“Monsieur Bourdon!”
Patric blinked. He looked at Julian as if he didn’t understand the man’s words.
“Monsieur Bourdon!” Julian repeated, extending his hand. “Please rise.”
Every head swiveled around and every eye fell upon him. Patric gasped, turning around as well to plead for help.
Father DeMarco’s head was lowered in prayer.
Patric turned to stare at the expectant faces. No one seemed surprised or offended; it was as if his presence among them was not unusual at all. Patric’s eyes darted awkwardly across the sanctuary as he rose to his feet.
“Please,” Julian said, “come stand beside me.”
Patric’s eyes nearly fell out of his head. His heart was pounding so loudly, he was sure everyone could hear it. For a brief moment, he considered politely refusing the offer and then sitting down again.
But he knew this wasn’t an offer. It was a command.
Feeling every eye weighing down on him like a heavy stone, Patric slipped out of the pew with a last desperate look at Father DeMarco, whose head was still bowed, and walked slowly down the center aisle towards the blazing altar.
Julian was just a dark form against the shimmering candle backdrop. His features slowly came into focus as Patric drew nearer, and his face remained frozen in a strange, yet somehow reassuring smile.
Patric was surprised at the heat radiating from the candle mountain. He imagined that Julian’s back must have second-degree burns. Swallowing his fear and ordering himself to put up a calm front, he approached the master of the sun. He hesitated for a moment, then dipped his head, as a knight before his king.
To his surprise, Julian returned the gesture. He then turned to address the clergymen.
“Brothers, you may have noticed our unusual guest. He is not a man of the cloth as you are, but he deserves a place among you nonetheless. You have all endured much hardship, but it must pale in comparison to the tragedy and tribulation that this man has been through. His half-brother, the man who helped ignite this righteous conflagration, silenced the Voice of Satan and was himself slaughtered at the Temple of the Dragon in Paris. His mother, a sweet, innocent, God-fearing woman, was burned to death in the hospice where she lived just days before Tourec’s courageous act.”
Patric’s skin crawled. How did he…?
“And in a grand finale of blasphemy and perversion,” Julian continued, “this man was nailed to a cross in the plaza just outside these walls. His life was saved only by God’s flawless timing, when He urged me to interrupt the execution and lead the charge against the heathens that controlled this holy place.”
He gestured towards Patric’s bandaged hands. Feeling a flush of embarrassment, Patric fought the urge to hide them behind his back. He could only offer a feeble smile and a nod to acknowledge Julian’s praise. But his stomach was doing somersaults. Why was Julian drawing attention to him like this? He searched the faces looking up at him, trying to read the variety of expressions. He was surprised to find them staring at him with what looked like admiration and respect.
Julian’s voice echoed across the cavernous sanctuary. “Patric Bourdon has suffered greatly for our church, and today, he has received his reward.”
He turned to Patric with gentle eyes that seemed to search his soul. His voice was quiet, too quiet for the others to hear.
“Your faith has made you well.”
Patric stared into Julian's eyes and instinctively took a step back.
“Faith?” he snapped. He held up his hands swathed in bandages. “I’m not healed.”
Julian tilted his head, an impish smile spreading across his face. “Aren’t you?”
Patric blinked rapidly, unsure of how to react. He flinched as Julian reached out and began to slowly unwind the bandages on his right hand.
No…impossible…
He almost pulled away from him, afraid, unwilling to hope, to believe. The gauze fell to the floor like a snake’s skin. Patric stared at his hand, unable to breathe.
He moved his fingers one by one, studying the ugly but closed scar branded into the center of his palm. He almost didn’t realize that Julian had unbound his other hand, which was also good as new, with the exception of the round, pale scar.
Julian stepped back, smiling like a proud parent who had given his son exactly what he wanted for Christmas. The clergymen gasped and murmured with awe and amazement.
Patric’s knees trembled. He looked at his restored hands as if they
were made of glass that would shatter with the slightest breath. His eyes shifted to Julian standing just a few feet away, awaiting Patric’s response.
The air in the sanctuary was a silent as a cemetery. Even the candles seemed to have ceased their undulations.
Patric felt something inside him melt like ice. He collapsed to his knees, buried his face in his healed hands, and wept. Julian, the clerics, the sanctuary – everything around him disappeared. He was left with only his fractured soul.
A voice, quivering with fury, echoed through the vaulted nave.
“End your blasphemy, heretic!”
Patric looked up, his vision shimmering through his tears. Father DeMarco strode down the center aisle, bold and challenging, a stark contrast to the frail figure he had seemed to be only moments before. In his left hand, he clutched something dangling from a chain.
Julian squared his shoulders and regarded the priest with haughty eyes.
“Again, Father? Why do you persist in this folly? I have demonstrated more than once that I am God’s anointed vessel and that His power flows through me.”
Father DeMarco came to a halt a few paces away from the altar. “Oh, you have incredible power, Signore Rossa Monte. Of that there is no doubt. But your power does not come from God.”
He spread his arms wide and swung his hands across the sanctuary. “You have deceived the world, and you lay claim to this sacred place by the power of the devil.”
The clerics stirred and whispered to one another, and those closest to Father DeMarco scooted away from him. Julian, however, appeared unruffled by the interruption. If anything, he seemed bored.
