The Age of Apollyon Trilogy (The Age of Apollyon, Black Sun, Scorn)
Page 68
As he exited the chapel and headed towards the large room where the clerics were gathered, one question pricked at his mind like a splinter.
Why would the priest say something like that? He had to have known he would bring judgment upon himself and be cast out of the church. His words were so wildly heretical, he had to have known that no one would listen to him.
So why did he even try?
He was so deep in thought that he almost walked past the door to Patric’s room without noticing it. He stopped and stared at the door, as if trying to see beyond it.
Having the assassin’s brother here in the Vatican was quite fortuitous, given his celebrity – first with his online video message and then his near-martyrdom. But his closeness with the rogue priest cast doubt on his trustworthiness, and Julian had to be sure where his allegiances lay before bringing him into the spotlight. He felt guilty about keeping him cooped up in such a small and austere room, but it was the best he could do on short notice. He would make sure Patric was well-cared for, and then he would have a private talk with him.
Hopefully he would make the right choice.
Straightening his blood-red robe, Julian continued his march down the corridor, making a mental note to speak with his guest this evening when there was time.
But right now, there were bigger issues at hand. War was brewing.
CHAPTER TEN
Patric let himself be led back to his room by Master Ko, but his mind was churning furiously. He noticed that the old man kept the access card somewhere on the right side of his robe, though he didn’t have a chance to look carefully to see if there were any exterior pockets or if the card was hidden in the robe itself. He seemed frail enough, and Patric had no doubt that he could overpower him if he wanted. After all, Father DeMarco had gotten the jump on him and stolen his jewelry. The old man’s neck was conspicuously empty today; Patric guessed that a cross of that splendor wasn’t easily replaced.
He sat on his bed, alone with the flimsy wooden furniture and an ancient copy of the Bible. He thumbed through the book, then tossed it aside after just a few seconds. It was written in Latin.
Lunch was brought at noontime, and he had to admit it was quite delicious. After he had eaten his fill, he took a shower, changed into some drab clothes that had been prepared for him, and took a nap. When he awoke, the sky was just beginning to darken with the approaching twilight. He rubbed his bleary eyes, surprised that he was still tired after sleeping for several hours. It was a lesson he had learned long ago – oversleeping can be worse than not sleeping at all.
He was grateful for the rest, though. He stretched his back and yawned widely, feeling his jaw pop. Despite his body’s rejuvenation, the anxiety was wreaking havoc on his nerves. He knew what his ultimate goal was: to get Natasha out of that sterilized dungeon, then get out of the Vatican as fast as possible and blow the whistle on this place. He didn’t know who would listen to him, but as the Asian priest had said, he was a bit of a celebrity, and that had to count for something.
Of course, the world thought he was as militant as his brother, thanks to Claude Jeraque. Being moments from martyrdom in St. Peter’s Square was certainly icing on that cake. He had to smirk at the irony. Had there ever been martyrs who believed in the exact opposite religion for which they were being executed?
Not that he would ever called himself a Satanist again. His entire family had been swallowed by this diabolical plan concocted by the devil and his fiends.
A mocking voice piped up deep in his soul.
Well, what did you expect? He is the devil, after all.
Patric couldn’t disagree. He had foolishly hoped that loyalty would have counted for something, but he was weak on that front as well. He had really only been on his own side, though Natasha had been quite devout and look where that had gotten her.
Patric’s face darkened like a thunderstorm. What was the point of serving that double-dealing, sadistic bastard? Just because of his lethal, terrifying power? That was a reason to fear him, but not to serve him and attend black masses in temples decorated like haunted houses.
He felt shame and embarrassment for ever getting involved in such a ludicrous freak show. He wasn’t ready to surrender to the other side, but at least the light had never lied to him. He marveled at the strength he had seen in people like Father DeMarco – they had every reason to curse God and spit on the cross, but remarkably, their faith increased. There were plenty of fanatics in the bunch – Tourec being a prime example – as well as boatloads of spineless cowards, but those who held firm defied all reason and logic. They simply couldn’t go on unless something else gave them strength.
Something that powerful couldn’t be dismissed offhand.
Sitting in that drab, featureless room, Patric prayed. Not out of desperation or terror, but from deep within his soul, as if he was truly talking with someone, rather than blindly firing off salvos and hoping they reached heaven.
God, if You’re listening, and I don’t know why You would, but if You are, if You get us out of here, I promise I will…I will give You serious consideration.
He felt sheepish and his cheeks flushed red, even though he was alone. But, strangely, he felt as if he wasn’t…
A sharp knock on the door made him jump. He took a couple of deep breaths, then opened the door.
The itching, tickling sensation inside his head immediately returned. The young woman standing at the door looked at him with a flat, almost lifeless expression. She didn’t seem to notice his reaction to her presence, but there was something strange about her, as if she stood in a deeper shadow than he did.
“His Holiness requests an audience with you.”
Without waiting for a response, the woman turned and began walking. Patric blinked, still standing in the doorway.
An “audience?” Who talks like that anymore?
The woman’s footsteps were becoming distant and Patric hurried after her. He thought about closing his door, but decided against it.
The woman led him into a different part of the Vatican than he had seen this morning with the old priest. Instead of looming, stark corridors leading into murky chambers, he soon found himself walking under gilded arches that reflected on the polished white marble beneath his feet. Breathtaking paintings that must have been painted by classical masters adorned the walls, and despite the encroaching dusk, the chambers seemed light and almost pleasant.
Be on your guard, he warned himself. The devil and his minions are at work here.
He stared hard at the woman in front of him. The bizarre feeling inside his head hadn’t gone away, and while it wasn’t painful, it couldn’t have been a coincidence. Was she possessed by a lesser demon that didn’t elicit as strong a reaction as other, more powerful demons, such as the woman in black? Patric smiled at the insanity of it all.
Demons-in-training…
They walked for several minutes, passing no one, and suddenly Patric found himself in front of a familiar door.
The Sistine Chapel.
Julian’s throne room.
The woman opened the door a few inches, then bowed and scurried away. Patric’s head immediately felt fine, but he didn’t notice. He just stared at that doors as if they were the jaws of a crocodile.
“Enter,” Julian’s voice called out from inside.
Patric swallowed, then pushed the doors open wide. The first thing he noticed was that the she-demon was nowhere in sight. The soaring chamber with its walls painted black seemed to go on forever like a dark tunnel. At the far end of the room, Julian languished on his throne. Patric couldn’t see his face clearly, but he imagined a lazy, bored, and slightly amused expression on his face.
Julian raised his hand. “Come.”
Patric walked across the chamber, keeping his eyes in front of him. He wanted to glance at the walls that rose on either side, and he felt a sadness weigh on his heart for Michelangelo's masterpiece. His brief employment as a security guard at the Limoges Art Gallery
had instilled a reluctant appreciation for important works of art, and something tugged at his soul, seeing the walls covered in black paint like a funeral shroud. Of course, the crime had first been committed when the Satanists overran the Vatican shortly after the Manifestation. Paint, food, even human blood had been spattered across the historic images, then subsequently covered up with sinister depictions of Satan’s infernal glory. Patric stole a quick glimpse at the walls, actually glad that they were painted black. He had encountered enough demons in real life; he didn’t need them watching him from the walls as well.
When he reached the throne, he stopped, then bowed. “Your…Holiness.”
Julian smiled blandly, then rose to his feet. “Are you well-fed? Have you slept?”
“Um, yes, Your Holiness. I feel a little…bored, but I am comfortable.”
“Good. That’s good.” Julian descended the marble steps and stood in front of Patric. He was wearing a simple black robe that highlighted the crucifix hovering in the middle of his chest. His hands and feet were hidden by the robe, and the fabric seemed to reflect no light. It was as if he was wearing the darkness itself.
He motioned to an ornately-carved bench against the wall. “Let us sit.”
Patric followed him to the bench and sat down. Only then did he realize how tightly he had been clenching his stomach muscles.
Julian’s hands appeared and he placed them on his knees. “I do apologize for the unconventional hospitality,” he said. “I must admit that my motivations are somewhat selfish, though not without merit.”
He took a deep breath and looked Patric squarely in the eyes. “The truth is, you are very important to me and to the church. Being related to the assassin who killed the Voice of Satan, then making that video statement… Most people would have gone into hiding for fear of being branded a terrorist.”
Patric lowered his head, unable to meet his eyes. If only you knew…
“And then that horrific incident in the square,” Julian continued. “Your faith and your strength are truly admirable.”
“My faith?” Patric said quietly, as if the words were foreign to him.
“Of course. How else could you be here, in God’s house? Most men would have cursed God’s name, but you have been through the fire and come out refined. Like Job.”
Patric was having a hard time focusing his thoughts. “Job?”
“Yes, Job. The patriarch…” Julian leaned forward, trying to look at Patric’s face. “Are you all right?”
Patric stared at the ground, suddenly feeling very ill.
Tell him the truth! If he finds out you’ve let him be deceived, you will never get out of here alive.
Another voice immediately objected.
If you tell him the truth, he will kill you right here. Let him believe that you are on his side – it’s your only chance to save her.
He looked up and forced a smile. “Yes, I’m fine. I’m just a little overwhelmed by everything that’s happened.”
He held up his hands as evidence. Julian seemed to be satisfied.
“I understand,” he said with a nod. “I’m still trying to process this whole situation myself. It’s not every day that you wake up and find that you can blot out the sun.”
Patric forced a quick laugh through his nose, though it came out as more of a snort. He froze, afraid that Julian would interpret the sound as contempt.
Julian didn’t seem to notice, however. He was staring at the black void across the room.
“Monsieur Bourdon,” he said, sounding very serious, “the reason I’ve kept you in that room is because I have concerns about your loyalty. I hope you will allow me to be frank.”
Patric gulped. “Of course.”
“Good. The reason for my concern is your relationship with the heretic who has twice challenged me in public, claiming that I am possessed by the devil or some such nonsense. His accusations don’t affect me, but I know that you entered the Vatican with that priest, and when you were close to death in St. Peter’s Square, he spoke to you as if he knew you.”
Patric thought he would continue, but he stopped speaking and looked at Patric with an expectant expression. Patric didn’t know how to respond, and his mind whirred frantically like an engine.
Better to mix a little bit of truth with the lies…
“Yes,” he said, “Father DeMarco was my friend.”
“How did you meet him?”
“He was my brother’s mentor when he was at his monastery.”
Julian’s eyebrows rose. “That man was your brother’s teacher? Well, that explains a lot. It would seem that Father DeMarco can’t cope with his role in all of this and is looking for a way to release his guilt. Unfortunately, he chose me as his target.”
He exhaled and shook his head. “It is a shame. Someone of his status would be a great asset to our church. But it seems he has chosen the wrong path, and now he will pay for his foolishness.”
“Hasn’t he paid already?” Patric asked, hoping Julian didn’t detect the worry in his voice. “You excommunicated him from the church. I’m not a priest, but I imagine that’s a fate worse than death for a man of the cloth.”
Julian’s eyes flashed for a moment as he stared across the room. Then he smiled, as if he had just remembered something.
“Of course. That is what I meant. I am sorry I had to employ such drastic measures but I cannot have anyone undermining my authority and standing in the way of what I am trying to accomplish.”
He looked at Patric with searching eyes. “That’s why I need to know: are you with me, Monsieur Bourdon?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, are you with me?”
The tone of his voice was unmistakable. Patric blinked twice. He wanted to reply but his mouth felt extremely dry. He finally managed to stammer, “Yes…yes, of course. I…Father DeMarco made the wrong choice. No one can deny that you…that you are chosen by God.”
He held up his hands again. “You have given me my life back. I owe you everything, and I will help you any way I can.”
Julian stared at him for several moments, but his expression was unreadable. Then, as if a switch had been thrown, his face became friendly.
“Wonderful!” he exclaimed. “I am able to do incredible things but I want people to follow me because they want to, not because they fear me. You will help me win the hearts and minds of the believers around the world, and together we will purge this world of sin and heresy.”
Patric felt a shudder crawl up his spine. “Amen,” he forced himself to say.
Julian nodded, looking very pleased with himself. “I just concluded a meeting with the clerics. Tomorrow, they will leave here and return to their hometowns to rebuild their congregations and reclaim their churches.”
“And how will they do that?”
There was a strange sparkle in Julian’s eye as he rose to his feet. “Like you, they have been healed.”
He walked slowly towards the throne, then stopped and turned around.
“And they have also been, shall we say, enhanced.”
****
The stories swept across Italy. After the clergymen returned to their parishes, or what used to be their parishes, newly-emboldened believers flocked to them, thirsty for vengeance. They gathered in angry mobs in the streets and marched towards the cathedrals and churches that had once been their houses of worship.
And that is when the unthinkable began to happen.
There was a radical change in the clerics as they returned to their congregations. They seemed younger somehow, infused with energy, fiery and vivacious. They were no longer the stooped-shouldered feeble old relics that had scurried into the shadows when the Satanist hordes appeared. Now they were bold, arrogant, and vengeance was on their lips. Their congregations, yearning for retribution, followed them into the streets and up to the doors of the churches.
Julian was right. The clergymen had been changed, enhanced.
Empowered.
The congregations were awestruck at their priests’ ferocity and were themselves emboldened. They swarmed through the aisles, overpowering anyone in their path, destroying anything that did not belong in a house of God.
Police forces were stretched too thin to deal with the rioters, and many clashes between believers and Satanists received no response from authorities. The violence spread to the surrounding countries as these superhuman clergymen rejoined their desperate flocks and led them into combat. Men who had never lifted a finger against another man their entire lives were suddenly transformed into vicious instruments of death, overcoming anyone who stood against them.
Less than two days after the conclusion of Julian’s assembly, more than a dozen churches had been reclaimed in the name of God. The Satanic Order, leaderless and in chaos, mounted only scattered resistance, but they were no match for the clerics and their bloodthirsty congregations. So they turned their fury against weaker targets, such as Christian families and businesses. This in turn sparked revenge by the Christians, and within a matter of days, the entire continent was ablaze.
Political leaders were desperate for an end to the bloodshed. Trembling envoys were dispatched to the Vatican, only be turned away before they could even enter St. Peter’s Square. Julian remained silent inside his fortress, and this worried the heads of state even more than if he made a public address. At least then they would know his plan and where he stood in all of this, but his silence was distressing. Roman authorities felt increasing pressure for an all-out assault on the Vatican, disregarding the likely cost in human lives and irreplaceable historic property.