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

by Mark Carver

  No one brought him any food, and judging from how hungry he was, he figured he had been in confinement for at least a day and a half. He cried out repeatedly for food, for water, for anyone, but there was no response. He would often wake up with his face pressed against the cold stone floor, unaware that he had even fallen asleep. In the darkness, he frequently heard the pattering of tiny animal feet but he saw and heard nothing.

  His parched tongue felt like a fat, dry slug in his mouth, and his head lolled as if he was drunk. He found himself staring at the sliver of light that squeezed through the tiny portal in the door. He imagined a pair of eyes suddenly appearing, black as obsidian.

  There were no eyes. There was nothing. He was alone, forsaken.

  But the pain of being cooped up in a medieval dungeon was minuscule compared to the agony that tore at his heart.

  He hadn’t found her. He hadn’t gotten her out. He didn’t know how, but he knew they had moved her, along with the rest of the “vessels.” That had to be the only explanation. Or perhaps that old priest had hypnotized him, cast some demonic spell over his fragile mind.

  Hugging his knees to his chest, he glanced again for the hundredth time at the tiny opening in the monolithic wooden door.

  He screamed, but his throat was so dry, the only sound was a hoarse, raspy noise like rusted metal scraping together. There were eyes, real eyes, staring at him from the portal. Then they disappeared.

  Patric’s fear morphed into panic.

  “Wait!” he croaked, reaching out towards the empty sliver of light.

  There were several moments of silence, then a jingling sound. A key was inserted into the keyhole, the lock sprang back, and the door opened on creaking hinges. The corridor outside the cell was illuminated by a weak, naked bulb, but the glare assaulted Patric’s eyes and he had to turn away.

  When his eyes had adjusted to the new level of light, he looked again at his unexpected guest. He could only make out the silhouette, but he recognized the visitor right away.

  The old priest was holding something in his hands. Patric blinked, then cringed as Master Ko handed something to him.

  Water.

  Patric gulped down the entire glass like a greedy child, spilling some over the corners of his mouth. He recognized the other item in the elder’s hand: a loaf of bread. He snatched it away before it was offered and stuffed it into his mouth, as if he was afraid that the old man would rescind his gift.

  Master Ko just stood quietly by as Patric wolfed down his meager meal. The shadows hid his blank expression, as if he was watching a stray dog scarf down garbage scraps. When Patric had eaten every last crumb of bread, he looked up at him with a pathetic expression on his face.

  “H-how long have I been in here?” he asked. His voice sounded closer to normal again.

  “Almost two days,” Master Ko answered, looking around as if noticing Patric’s appalling accommodations for the first time.

  “Two days…”

  Patric’s stomach hurt from the rapid expansion caused by the bread, and for a moment he thought he might throw up. Thankfully, he kept the food down, and he wished he could have a few more loaves and then a nice relaxing nap to regain his strength so he could jump onto the old man and strangle him until his eyes bulged out of his wrinkled face.

  Master Ko smiled, as if he was amused by Patric’s violence fantasy.

  “Once again, I apologize for your accommodations. It seems that your stay at the Vatican has been less than pleasant.”

  Patric rose slowly to his feet. He didn’t know what was stopping him from attacking the old man. His only reason for staying here had vanished without a trace – or worse, had just been a hallucination – and he felt half-dead already. He clenched and unclenched his fingers, wondering how the old man’s throat would feel beneath his grip.

  He was surprised when Master Ko turned his back on him. He appeared to be admiring a non-existent painting on the wall.

  “I must thank you, though,” the old man said, his tone casual, “for your sacrifices. I can’t imagine what you’ve been though these past few weeks, but you have gone far beyond the call of duty. But now…”

  He turned around and faced Patric. Somehow he seemed to grow in the darkness, looming over Patric like a menacing giant.

  “One more sacrifice is required.”

  He motioned with his hand, and four large men marched into the cell. Patric winced as a sharp stab of pain pierced his skull and he doubled over, as if struck by a blow to his midsection. He felt rough hands seize his arms and shoulders as he kept his gaze on the priest.

  “What have you done with her?” he demanded as he was propelled out of the dungeon. His unanswered cries echoed down the corridor. “Where is she? What have you done with her?”

  Master Ko watched the five of them disappear around a corner, then sighed and shook his aching head. He resolved to never agree to another plan that involved him getting knocked unconscious. Twice in one week was more than enough.

  He looked up, imagining he could hear the multitude of feet pounding the stones in St. Nero’s Square. This was going to be a glorious day.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Everything was a bit of a blur for Christine upon her arrival at the Vatican. She was ushered from the underground parking lot directly into the building; she never saw a glimpse of daylight, except through the majestic windows that lined the walls. She imagined they were giant angelic mouths singing silent hymns.

  She had never been inside the Vatican before, though she had attended an Easter mass in the square with her father when she was only a few years old. She had a vague memory of the experience, recalling a large pointed stone standing tall in the sea of bodies, like a giant granite finger pointing at the sky. It seemed to be pointing the way to heaven.

  Try as she might, she couldn’t summon any more memories of this place, though what she was seeing now was quite a different facet of the Vatican. She could almost feel the heavenly vibrations, could smell incense and votive candles and hear murmured Latin prayers and see beads of light reflecting onto the walls, flung there by brilliantly bejeweled crosses and crucifixes.

  This was all in her mind, of course. The building that she was being rushed through was grand but essentially empty. There were no religious icons or decorations, no chanting monks shuffling by in their humble cassocks, no altars and no candles flickering atop them.

  It was clear to her now that she was out of danger, nestled in the bosom of Christianity, but she also felt an uneasy feeling tugging at the back of her mind, like an impatient child with something important to say. She ignored it, telling herself that she was just exhausted, physically and emotionally, and still hadn’t given herself enough time to process the unbelievable event she had been a part of.

  Her fingertips tingled when she thought about that unbelievable event. She, Christine Patricia Jeraque, had helped bring down the mightiest beast in Satan’s kingdom. The enemy had been struck by the hammer of God, a crippling blow in exactly the same place where he had wounded the Christian church so many years ago.

  An eye for an eye…

  And now here she was, in Rome, inside the most sacred place on earth. When she had been huddled on the floor of that cell in Paris, she had given up her will to live. She knew she was going to die a painful martyr’s death, and she was ready for it. And while her body was now safe and sound, her mind was still having a hard time adjusting to this radically-altered reality.

  The only thing she could do was thank God for His mercy, and pray for the strength to face whatever was coming next.

  That last part was the impatient child again. It seemed to be warning her, aware of some hidden danger that she was not.

  Was the new pope dangerous? Christine had yet to meet the man, but as she was led into a magnificent suite twice as large as any house she had ever lived in and was tended to by nurses and servants, her discomfort began to seep away, like ice melting on a warm spring morning.

 
After her bruises and scrapes were cleaned and bandaged, she was given a delicious bowl of hot broth to eat. She happily consumed two and a half bowls, chastising her stomach for failing to keep pace with her taste buds. She then settled in a deep and dreamless sleep, and when she awoke, she felt like a new woman.

  Gone were the feelings of anxiety, of worry, and any lingering threads of regret. She didn’t even think about her American friends who had strangely not been rescued along with her. The only thought that glowed in her mind was that she was in the Vatican, the holy of holies.

  And she couldn’t wait to find out why.

  After showering and changing into a luxurious silk robe, she moved through her suite, delighted to discover a continental breakfast spread out on an antique table adjacent to the lounge. She ate and drank almost everything, except for the sausages. She never did have the stomach for processed meat.

  Almost immediately after she had consumed the last bite, there was a knock on the door.

  “Mademoiselle?” a pleasant voice called out in excellent French. “Are you awake?”

  The voice sounded like it belonged to a butler of exquisite French refinement. Christine had to force herself to remember that she was in a church and not a luxury hotel.

  “Yes, I’m awake,” she answered as she opened the door. She blinked with surprise at the diminutive Asian priest, shocked that such a musical voice could have come from this man. He resembled a shriveled frog.

  The old priest bowed low. “I am Father Shen, mademoiselle. Welcome to Vatican City.”

  Christine glanced over his shoulder, wondering if there was anyone else with him. “Thank you,” she said, returning the bow.

  Master Ko smiled. “Are you rested from your ordeal?”

  Christine instinctively brushed her fingers against her left shoulder. “I’m still a little sore in some places but I’m all right.”

  “Excellent. We are all amazed at your faith and courage. You have dealt the enemy a decisive blow, and His Holiness was adamant that you be rescued from what was certainly a terrible fate awaiting you.”

  “Umm, yes, I suppose it was. Would…would it be possible for me to meet with His Holiness? To thank him in person?”

  Master Ko bowed again. “Of course. He is expecting you as soon as you are ready.”

  Christine’s eyes grew wide. “Oh! Um, well, give me a few minutes, let me wear something more appropriate – "

  “You are, mademoiselle.”

  Christine looked down at her robe, which she had assumed was only suitable for wearing in one’s chambers. Then she remembered where she was. She also remembered that she didn’t have anything else to change into.

  “Then I suppose I am ready,” she said.

  With another well-rehearsed smile, Master Ko offered her his arm and led her through the vast and empty corridors. They came to a halt in front of a pair of massive doors that looked like they guarded a king’s throne room. Master Ko raised his fist and pounded on one of the doors with startling force. Immediately a voice echoed from within.

  “Enter!”

  Master Ko looked at Christine with an expectant smile, bowed once more, then stepped away from the doors. Christine’s heart began to beat furiously and she glared at the small man as if he had lured her into a trap. But she took a deep breath to calm her nerves, then pushed on the doors.

  They were even heavier than they looked and she had to exert considerable effort to get them open. She scanned the chamber, and despite the foreboding black walls, she knew this was the Sistine Chapel.

  At the far end of the room was an impressive throne beneath a large golden cross. But the throne was empty. She searched the room and saw a robed figure sitting on a bench against a far wall. He looked like a dejected schoolboy who was being punished.

  He raised his head as she entered the chamber but he did not rise right away. She began walking towards him and she saw that he smiled as she drew nearer, but his eyes seemed to look through her, as if he was thinking about something else.

  “Christine,” he said, finally rising to his feet. He bowed and offered the same stiff smile the old priest had given her. Something about his manner immediately made her uncomfortable, as if he was forcing himself to be friendly against his will.

  She knelt down before him, telling herself to stop being so suspicious and show proper respect. “Your Holiness.”

  He held out his right hand. A massive gold ring sparkled on his finger, and she kissed it reverently.

  “Arise, my dear.”

  When she stood up, she studied his face, knowing that she might be rude in doing so. He was clearly agitated, though not with her.

  Of course he’s agitated, you silly girl. Think of who he is and what is going on out there in the world. Just because he has supernatural power doesn’t mean that he has no feelings.

  Christine had forgotten that this was the man who had darkened the sun with his mere words.

  She flinched when she realized that he was staring at her.

  “Are you rested and recovered?” he asked with genuine concern.

  “Yes, Your Holiness,” she said, bowing again to collect herself. “And I wish to express my eternal gratitude for rescuing me from my captors.”

  He seemed to relax a bit. “Not at all,” he said with a wave of his hand. He began walking towards his throne and she fell into step behind him. “When I learned of your extraordinary exploits in Paris, I realized that you were a rare jewel worth saving.”

  “Um, thank you, Your Holiness.”

  “And I am confident that you can continue to be of great value to God and to His church.”

  “Your Holiness?”

  Julian ascended a few stairs but stopped short of reaching his throne. He turned with a finger raised, as if a brilliant idea had just occurred to him.

  “Have you ever been up on stage, Christine? Made a public performance or speech before?”

  Christine swallowed what felt like a stone in her throat. “Yes, Your Holiness, though I was not the only one on the stage.”

  Julian smiled again, and this time his whole face beamed. “Well, I hope that you are not afraid of crowds, Christine. I am about to make you blessed among women.”

  Christine furrowed her brow and had to stop herself from taking a step back.

  “I’m not sure I understand, Your Holiness.”

  Still wearing that fox-like smile, he descended the stairs and offered his hand. She took it, though her hesitation was obvious. Julian took no notice as he led her out of the chapel. He opened the doors as easily as if they were made of paper.

  Master Ko was standing in the Sala Reglia a few meters away from the chapel entrance. He snapped to attention like a soldier when he saw Julian and Christine emerge.

  “Father Shen,” Julian said, “it is time.”

  Master Ko dipped his head and glanced at Christine. “The square is full, Your Holiness. The faithful have answered your call, and the unbelieving cowards seem to have retreated.”

  “Excellent,” Julian said. “After today, no one will question my power, nor doubt the destiny of our church to rule this earth.”

  “Indeed, Your Holiness.”

  The elder’s gaze swiveled to Christine again. “Mademoiselle, are you ready?”

  Christine looked at Julian with more than a little anxiety in her eyes. “Ready for what?”

  Master Ko’s smile remained frozen on his ancient face, but there was no laughter in his eyes.

  “For your promotion.”

  ****

  It was deja vu all over again.

  Patric sat on a moldy, moth-eaten sofa, his hands bound behind his back. But this time, his captors weren’t old hags and terrifying old men in ceremonial robes; they were hulking, monolithic brutes whose faces seemed to mimic the statues on Easter Island.

  And more importantly, this time Patric felt no fear. He felt nothing. He didn’t know what was going to happen to him, but he knew he was going to die, and he was g
lad. This whirlwind that had been his life for the past several weeks was exhausting, and he wanted it to end. He didn’t care how or even how long it took. He just wanted this nightmare to be over.

  His heart ached for Natasha, though a tiny, shrill voice deep in his heart chastised him for being such an emotional weakling. After all, she had borne another man’s child and had abandoned him to follow after a demon. What did he owe her, besides a cold shoulder?

  Shut up! Patric snarled silently through clenched teeth. He was through with second-guesses and moralizing and spiritual crises. Everything in his life had culminated into this moment of futility, and he just wanted someone to throw the switch. He didn’t care about his legacy or who would love or hate him when he was gone. It wasn’t like he would be here to reap the rewards.

  Cowering beneath the arctic eyes of his guardians, Patric heard something. It was coming from outside. A voice, strong and powerful. Julianus Secundus Christi was addressing his loyal subjects.

  A chill shivered down Patric’s spine. He craned his neck to try and hear what was being said, but then he remembered that the Vatican was in Italy and the audience spoke Italian. He was shocked when he heard the madman speaking in English.

  “ – here on this blessed day to declare our strength to the unbelieving world,” Julian declared, standing on the portico adjacent to the papal chambers, where dozens of pontiffs had delivered their sermons and presided over masses. As he spoke, he felt a strange sense of awe standing above the crowd which stretched beneath him like an undulating ocean of faces. He gripped the balustrade, wondering how many famous hands had been placed here.

  And you will be greater than all of them…

  Julian smiled at the quiet voice in his mind. He knew it was right. He inhaled a deep breath and continued his message, his voice amplified with the aid of a lapel microphone tucked in the folds of his crimson robe.

  “Let us begin with prayer.”

  He opened his arms wide, then closed his eyes and bowed his head. Everyone in the audience did the same. Everyone except Father DeMarco and those who had come with him. The priest stretched out his neck as he searched the crowd, ignoring the words of the false prophet. Even when Julian began praying in Latin, Father DeMarco felt no vibrations in reverence on the strings of his heart. Every word was blasphemy, every prayer a mockery of God.