THE NOSTRADAMUS PROPHECIES

by Mario Reading

  In Ba­le’s vi­ew - imb­ru­ed from co­unt­less ho­urs of his­tory les­sons le­ar­ned at the fe­et and at the be­hest, of Mon­si­e­ur and Ma­da­me, his pa­rents - Mar­burg and de Be­ni­ols had be­en fal­sely la­bel­led as sa­dis­tic and va­ing­lo­ri­o­us per­se­cu­tors of the in­no­cent when they had simply be­en car­rying out the or­ders of the Mot­her Church; Vlad ‘the Im­pa­ler’ had be­en in­cor­rectly ac­cu­sed of tur­ning tor­tu­re in­to an art, whilst he had, in re­ality, be­en de­fen­ding - in wha­te­ver way was de­emed ex­pe­di­ent at the ti­me - his be­lo­ved Wal­lac­hia aga­inst the hor­rors of Ot­to­man ex­pan­si­on; the Mar­qu­is de Sa­de had be­en un­fa­irly char­ged by his det­rac­tors with li­ber­ti­nism and the fo­men­ta­ti­on of se­xu­al anarchy, whe­re­as, in the vi­ew of the Cor­pus, he had simply be­en pro­mul­ga­ting an ad­van­ced phi­lo­sophy of ext­re­me fre­edom and to­le­ran­ce de­sig­ned to li­be­ra­te the world from mo­ral tyranny; the com­po­ser Prin­ce Car­lo Ge­su­al­do had be­en wrongly cas­ti­ga­ted as a wi­fe- and child-kil­ler by his no do­ubt pre­j­udi­ced ac­cu­sers, me­rely as a re­sult of de­fen­ding the sanc­tity of his ma­ri­tal ho­me aga­inst un­wan­ted in­ter­fe­ren­ce; his­tory had tar­red Tsar Ivan Grozny with the brush of ‘fi­li­ci­dal tyrant’ and ‘The Ter­rib­le’, whe­re­as, to many of his co­untry­men and in the vi­ew of the Cor­pus, he had be­en the sa­vi­o­ur of Sla­vo­nic Rus­sia; Nic­colò Mac­hi­avel­li had be­en desc­ri­bed by his cri­tics as a te­le­olo­gi­cal ab­so­lu­tist and a per­pet­ra­tor of the po­li­tics of fe­ar, la­bels de­sig­ned to det­ract from the fact that he was al­so a bril­li­ant dip­lo­mat, a po­et, a playw­right and an ins­pi­ra­ti­onal po­li­ti­cal phi­lo­sop­her; the en­ti­re Bor­gia fa­mily had be­en bran­ded as both cri­mi­nal­ly cor­rupt and mo­ral­ly in­sa­ne, whe­re­as, in the Cor­pus’s vi­ew, they had (bar a few trif­ling in­fe­li­ci­ti­es) be­en en­ligh­te­ned po­pes, mighty law­ma­kers and ins­pi­red art lo­vers, de­eply con­cer­ned with the sup­ra­na­ti­onal pro­mul­ga­ti­on of the glo­ri­es of the Ita­li­an High Re­na­is­san­ce; Co­unt Ales­sand­ro di Cag­li­ost­ro had be­en cal­led both a char­la­tan and a Mas­ter for­ger - in fact he was an alc­he­mist and a Kab­ba­list of the hig­hest or­der, des­pe­ra­te to il­lu­mi­na­te the as yet lar­gely unp­lum­bed depths of the oc­cult; na­tu­ro­path he­aler and vi­si­onary mystic Gre­gor Ras­pu­tin had be­en desc­ri­bed by his cri­tics as a lub­ri­ci­o­usly pre­po­tent ‘mad monk’ who was sing­le-han­dedly res­pon­sib­le for the dest­ruc­ti­on of the ent­renc­hed and mo­ri­bund Rus­si­an mo­narchy - but who, Ba­le felt, co­uld bla­me him? - who, in ret­ros­pect, wo­uld da­re to cast the first sto­ne?; Le Maréc­hal Gil­les de Ra­is had be­en cal­led a pa­edop­hi­le, a can­ni­bal and a tor­tu­rer of child­ren, but he had al­so be­en an early sup­por­ter of Jo­an of Arc, a bril­li­ant sol­di­er and an en­ligh­te­ned the­at­ri­cal pro­mo­ter who­se hob­bi­es, in cer­ta­in spe­ci­fic and unim­por­tant sphe­res, might oc­ca­si­onal­ly ha­ve got the bet­ter of him - but did that dis­co­unt his gre­ater acts? The lar­ger li­ved li­fe? No. Of co­ur­se not - and ne­it­her sho­uld it; Gi­aco­mo Ca­sa­no­va was con­si­de­red by pos­te­rity to be both spi­ri­tu­al­ly and et­hi­cal­ly deg­ra­ded, whe­re­as he had, in re­ality, be­en an ad­van­ced li­be­ral thin­ker, an ins­pi­red his­to­ri­an and a di­arist of ge­ni­us; and Co­un­tess Erzsé­bet Báthory, jud­ged a vam­pi­ri­cal mass mur­de­ress by her pe­ers, had in fact be­en an edu­ca­ted, mul­ti­lin­gu­al wo­man who had not only de­fen­ded her hus­band’s cast­le du­ring the Long War of 1593-1606, but had al­so fre­qu­ently in­ter­ve­ned on be­half of des­ti­tu­te wo­men who had be­en cap­tu­red and ra­ped by the Turks - the fact that she had la­ter ex­san­gu­ina­ted cer­ta­in of the mo­re se­ve­rely tra­uma­ti­sed of her char­ges had be­en de­emed by the Cor­pus (altho­ugh lar­gely with ton­gue firmly thrust in­to che­ek) to be em­pi­ri­cal­ly ne­ces­sary for the furt­he­ran­ce and se­cu­re pro­pa­ga­ti­on of the now all-con­su­ming twenty-first cen­tury sci­en­ce of cos­me­tic en­han­ce­ment. All had be­en ‘pe­op­le of the fly’, in­duc­ted by the­ir pa­rents, grand­pa­rents, te­ac­hers or ad­vi­sers, in­to the sec­ret her­me­tic ca­bal of the Cor­pus - a ca­bal de­sig­ned to pro­tect and in­su­la­te the world from its own mis­gu­ided ins­tincts. As Mon­si­e­ur, his fat­her, had put it: ‘In a world of black and whi­te, the De­vil ru­les. Pa­int the world grey - muddy the bo­un­da­ri­es of ac­cep­ted mo­ra­lity - and the De­vil lo­ses his fin­ger-hold.’

  La­ter, what Mon­si­e­ur, had cal­led the ‘na­tu­ral’ adepts had co­me along - tho­se with an in­na­tely dest­ruc­ti­ve ge­ne, but who wo­uld not ne­ces­sa­rily ha­ve re­cog­ni­sed that what they we­re do­ing was in any way a part of a lar­ger or mo­re sig­ni­fi­cant who­le. Men and wo­men li­ke Cat­he­ri­ne de Me­di­ci, Oli­ver Crom­well, Na­po­le­on Bo­na­par­te, Qu­e­en Ra­na­va­lo­na, Ka­iser Wil­helm II, Vla­di­mir Le­nin, Adolf Hit­ler, Joseph Sta­lin, Be­ni­to Mus­so­li­ni, Mao Ze­dong, Idi Amin Da­da and Pol Pot. Each, in the­ir turn, had be­en a di­mi­nis­her of the sta­tus quo. A chal­len­ger of mo­ral pre­cepts. A sha­ker of the tree of ci­vi­li­sa­ti­on. Na­tu­ral adepts of the Cor­pus, ful­fil­ling its aims des­pi­te - or per­haps even be­ca­use of - the­ir own self-styled agen­das.

  Such tyrants drew acoly­tes to them li­ke a bug-zap­per draws fli­es. They ac­ted as rec­ru­iting gro­unds for the we­ak, the halt and the mo­ral­ly in­sa­ne - just the ca­te­gory of pe­op­le the Cor­pus ne­eded in or­der to ful­fil its aims. And the gre­atest and most suc­ces­sful of the­se - thus far at le­ast - had be­en the first two An­tich­rists pre­dic­ted in Re­ve­la­ti­ons: Na­po­le­on Bo­na­par­te and Adolf Hit­ler. Un­li­ke the­ir pre­de­ces­sors, both men had ac­ted glo­bal­ly and not me­rely na­ti­onal­ly. They had func­ti­oned as ca­talysts for a gre­ater evil - one de­sig­ned to pla­ca­te the De­vil and ke­ep him from per­ma­nently in­ves­ting the earth with his in­cu­bi and suc­cu­bae.

  Ba­le knew ins­tinc­ti­vely that the Third An­tich­rist spo­ken of in Re­ve­la­ti­ons - the ‘One Still To Co­me’ - wo­uld easily out­do both his pre­de­ces­sors in the gran­de­ur of his ac­hi­eve­ments. For cha­os, the Cor­pus be­li­eved, was in ever­yo­ne’s best in­te­rests - be­ca­use it for­ced pe­op­le to cons­pi­re aga­inst it. To act com­mu­nal­ly and with dyna­mic cre­ati­vity. All the gre­atest in­ven­ti­ons - all ci­vi­li­sa­ti­on’s migh­ti­est le­aps - had oc­cur­red du­ring pe­ri­ods of fl ux. The earth ne­eded the Di­ony­si­an and must cold-sho­ul­der the Apol­lo­ni­an. The al­ter­na­ti­ve led only to dam­na­ti­on - and to the tur­ning away of God.

  What was it that John the Di­vi­ne had writ­ten in his Bo­ok of Apo­calyp­tic Re­ve­la­ti­on, fol­lo­wing his exi­le to the is­land of Pat­mos, co­ur­tesy of the Em­pe­ror Ne­ro?

  And I saw an an­gel co­me down from he­aven, ha­ving the key to the bot­tom­less pit and a gre­at cha­in in his hand. And he la­id hold on the dra­gon, that old ser­pent, which is the De­vil and Sa­tan and bo­und him a tho­usand ye­ars. And cast him in­to the bot­tom­less pit and shut him up and set a se­al upon him, that he sho­uld de­ce­ive the na­ti­ons no mo­re, till the tho­usand ye­ars sho­uld be ful­fil­led: and af­ter that he must be lo­osed a lit­tle se­ason…And

  when the tho­usand ye­ars are ex­pi­red, Sa­tan shall be lo­osed out of his pri­son; And shall go out to de­ce­ive the na­ti­ons which are in the fo­ur qu­ar­ters of the earth, Gog and Ma­gog, to gat­her them to­get­her to bat­tle: the num­ber of whom is as the sand of the sea.

  AND AF­TER THAT HE MUST BE LO­OSED A LIT­TLE SE­ASON…

  It was un­fo
r­tu­na­te that the nu­me­ro­lo­gi­cal sum of Ac­hor Ba­le’s na­me ad­ded up to the Kab­ba­lis­tic num­ber two. This ga­ve him a ste­ady, even dis­po­si­ti­on, but al­so gu­aran­te­ed that he wo­uld al­ways re­ma­in su­bor­di­na­te and over-sen­si­ti­ve - a per­pe­tu­al hench­man, rat­her than a le­ader. So­me fo­ols even cal­led it a ma­le­vo­lent, evil num­ber, fal­ling wit­hin the ne­ga­ti­ve fe­ma­le spect­rum and ren­de­ring its ad­he­rents prey to do­ubts and va­cil­la­ti­ons and un­cer­ta­in­ti­es of fo­cus.

  Unless, of co­ur­se, the­ir cha­rac­ters we­re in­fu­sed and strengt­he­ned by strong di­rec­ti­on and a fun­da­men­tal co­re be­li­ef from a su­itably early age.

  Ba­le felt that he owed this all-re­de­eming, po­si­ti­ve as­pect of his na­tu­re to Mon­si­e­ur, his fat­her’s, inf­lu­en­ce. If Ba­le co­uld not be an ins­ti­ga­tor, then he wo­uld be a fol­lo­wer. A lo­yal fol­lo­wer. A cru­ci­al cog in the outp­la­ying of the in­fer­nal mac­hi­ne.

  Now that he had for­ced the girl’s na­me from that fo­ol Gav­ril, Ba­le de­ci­ded that it might be amu­sing to try the Kab­ba­lis­tic test on her - and al­so on the gypsy, Ale­xi Du­fon­ta­ine. It wo­uld help him to de­al with them. It wo­uld gi­ve him in­sights in­to the­ir cha­rac­ter that he wo­uld not ot­her­wi­se ha­ve ac­cess to.

  He con­duc­ted the cal­cu­la­ti­ons swiftly in his he­ad. Both ca­me out as eights. Usu­al­ly an aus­pi­ci­o­us num­ber and lin­ked in so­me ways to his own. But when hol­ders of the num­ber per­sis­ted in fol­lo­wing co­ur­ses of ac­ti­on simply out of stub­born­ness or me­re pig-he­aded­ness, the num­ber tur­ned ne­ga­ti­ve, do­oming its pos­ses­sor. This, Ba­le de­ci­ded, must be the ca­se with the gypsi­es.

  What was Sa­bir’s num­ber? Now that wo­uld be in­te­res­ting. Ba­le tho­ught it thro­ugh. A.D.A.M.S.A.B.I.R. What did that gi­ve in terms of Kab­ba­lis­tic nu­me­ro­logy? 1,4,1,4,3,1,2,1,2. Ma­king 19. Add 1 and 9, ma­king 10. That’s 1 + 0. Me­aning Sa­bir was a num­ber one. Po­wer­ful. Am­bi­ti­o­us. Do­mi­nant. An easy fri­end-ma­ker and an inf­lu­en­cer of pe­op­le. A ‘righ­te­o­us man’ per­so­na­lity. So­me­one, in ot­her words, who can­not ad­mit that they are ever in the wrong. An Alp­ha ma­le.

  Ba­le smi­led. He wo­uld enj­oy tor­men­ting and kil­ling Sa­bir. It wo­uld co­me as such a shock to the man.

  For Sa­bir had dra­ined his go­od luck to the le­es and it was ti­me to ma­ke an end of the mat­ter.

  48

  When Sa­bir he­ard the shuf­fle of Ale­xi’s hor­se, he re­fu­sed, at first, to be­li­eve his ears. It was a stray from the ne­igh­bo­uring do­ma­ine. Or an es­ca­ped Ca­mar­gu­a­is bull, out lo­oking for a ma­te.

  He drew in for pro­tec­ti­on be­hind a clump of aca­cia tre­es, trus­ting that the out­li­ne of the branc­hes wo­uld muddy his sil­ho­u­et­te in the ra­pidly enc­ro­ac­hing dusk. Ca­re­ful­ly, pa­ins­ta­kingly, he to­ok the kni­fe out of his poc­ket and ex­ten­ded the bla­de. Des­pi­te all his best ef­forts, it ma­de a de­fi­ni­te snick when ope­ned.

  ‘Who’s the­re?’

  Sa­bir hadn’t re­ali­sed that he had be­en hol­ding his bre­ath. He ex­ha­led in one gra­te­ful, exul­tant who­osh. ‘Ale­xi? It’s me. Da­mo. Thank God you’re all right.’

  Ale­xi swa­yed in the sad­dle. ‘I tho­ught you we­re the eye-man. When I he­ard that click, I tho­ught I was do­ne for. I tho­ught you we­re go­ing to sho­ot me.’

  Sa­bir scramb­led up the bank. He clung on to Ale­xi’s stir­rup ‘So you ha­ve it? You ha­ve the prop­he­ci­es?’

  ‘I think so. Yes.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I’ve bu­ri­ed them. The eye-man…’ Ale­xi til­ted for­wards and be­gan to sli­de down the si­de of the gel­ding’s neck.

  Sa­bir had be­en so wo­und up with his own ex­ci­te­ment abo­ut the prop­he­ci­es that it had not oc­cur­red to him to check on Ale­xi’s physi­cal con­di­ti­on. He ca­ught Ale­xi un­der both arms and eased him off the gel­ding. ‘What’s the mat­ter? Are you inj­ured?’

  Ale­xi cur­led up in­to a ball on the gro­und. ‘I fell. Hard.

  On to a bar­ri­er. Then so­me conc­re­te. Es­ca­ping from the eye-man. It’s be­en get­ting wor­se. The last half-ho­ur. I don’t think I will be ab­le to ma­ke it back to the ho­use.’

  ‘Whe­re is he? Whe­re is the eye-man?’

  ‘I don’t know. I lost him. But he kil­led Gav­ril. Smas­hed in his he­ad with a sto­ne and ma­de it lo­ok li­ke an ac­ci­dent. I put everyt­hing back in pla­ce to inc­ri­mi­na­te him. To­ok Gav­ril’s hor­se. My own hor­se was kil­led. Now you ha­ve to go back to the ho­use. The eye-man might know abo­ut the Ma­set.’

  ‘How co­uld he know abo­ut the Ma­set? It’s im­pos­sib­le.’

  ‘No. Not im­pos­sib­le. He might ha­ve got it from Gav­ril. That fo­ol fol­lo­wed us. The eye-man ca­ught up with him. But I told you this al­re­ady. I’m too ti­red to re­pe­at myself. Lis­ten to me, Da­mo. Le­ave me he­re. Ta­ke the hor­se. Go back to the Ma­set. Get Yo­la. Only then co­me back. To­mor­row, when I am bet­ter, I will show you whe­re the prop­he­ci­es are.’

  ‘The prop­he­ci­es. You’ve se­en them?’

  ‘Go, Da­mo. Ta­ke the hor­se. Fetch Yo­la. The prop­he­ci­es don’t mat­ter any­mo­re. You un­ders­tand? It is only wri­ting. Not worth a sing­le li­fe.’

  49

  Ba­le lo­ca­ted the de­fec­ti­ve shut­ter - the de­fec­ti­ve shut­ter that was al­ways to be fo­und in old ho­uses if you had the pa­ti­en­ce to lo­ok for it. He le­ve­red the shut­ter gently open. Then he in­ser­ted his kni­fe in­to the war­ped sash of the win­dow fra­me and se­esa­wed it from si­de to si­de. The win­dow ope­ned with a no­ise li­ke the rif­fling of a deck of cards.

  Ba­le pa­used, lis­te­ning. The ho­use was as si­lent as the gra­ve. Ba­le al­lo­wed his eyes to fo­cus in the glo­om. When he co­uld see aga­in, he chec­ked out the ro­om. The pla­ce stank of dri­ed ro­dent corp­ses and the ac­cu­mu­la­ted dust of ye­ars of be­nign neg­lect.

  He mo­ved to the hal­lway and then down to­wards the kitc­hen. It had be­en the­re that he had se­en the oil lamps and the cand­les bur­ning. Stran­ge that the­re we­re no vo­ices. In Ba­le’s ex­pe­ri­en­ce, pe­op­le ne­arly al­ways tal­ked in aban­do­ned ho­uses - it was a me­ans of ke­eping the gho­uls at bay. Of pric­king the si­len­ce.

  He re­ac­hed the kitc­hen do­or and glan­ced in­si­de. Not­hing. He twitc­hed one nost­ril. So­up. He co­uld smell so­up. So the girl was he­re, at the very le­ast. Was she out­si­de, per­haps, using na­tu­re’s clo­set? In which ca­se he had be­en very lucky in­de­ed not to run in­to her and risk lo­sing her in the dark.

  Or per­haps she had he­ard him? War­ned Sa­bir? And they we­re lying in wa­it for him so­mew­he­re in the ho­use. Ba­le smi­led. That wo­uld ma­ke things a lit­tle mo­re amu­sing. Gi­ve things a lit­tle mo­re ed­ge.

  ‘Yo­ur so­up’s bo­iling over.’ His vo­ice ec­ho­ed thro­ugh the ho­use as thro­ugh a cat­hed­ral.

  Had the­re be­en a rust­ling in the far cor­ner of the sa­lon? Over the­re be­hind the ber­gè­re so­fa? Whe­re the ti­red old cur­ta­ins hung down? Ba­le pic­ked up one of a pa­ir of bron­ze knick­knacks and lob­bed it at the front do­or. The clat­ter it ma­de se­emed obs­ce­nely lo­ud in the so­und-dam­pe­ned ro­om.

  A fi­gu­re dar­ted from be­hind the so­fa and be­gan le­ve­ring wildly at the shut­ters. Ba­le pic­ked up the se­cond bron­ze sta­tu­et­te and flung it at the fi­gu­re. The­re was a cry and the fi­gu­re fell.

  Ba­le sta­yed whe­re he was - lis­te­ning - bre­at­hing only thro­ugh his mo­uth. Had an­yo­ne el­se ma­de a so­und? Or had the­re only ever be­en that sing­le per­son in t
he ho­use? The girl - he sen­sed now that it had be­en the girl.

  He wal­ked back in­to the kitc­hen and fetc­hed the oil lamp. Hol­ding it out ahe­ad of him, he wal­ked over to the ma­in shut­te­red win­dow. The girl was cur­led up on the flo­or. Had he kil­led her? That wo­uld be in­con­ve­ni­ent. He had cer­ta­inly thrown the bron­ze sta­tu­et­te as hard as he had be­en ab­le. But it might ha­ve be­en Sa­bir. He co­uldn’t af­ford to ta­ke any chan­ces at this la­te sta­ge in the ga­me.

  As he re­ac­hed down for her, the girl slit­he­red away from his grasp and ran wildly down the cor­ri­dor.

  Had she he­ard him bre­aking in? Was she he­ading for the back win­dow? Ba­le ran in the op­po­si­te di­rec­ti­on to the one she had ta­ken. He threw him­self thro­ugh the front do­or and then cur­ved left aro­und the ho­use.

  He slo­wed down as he ap­pro­ac­hed the win­dow. Yes. The­re was her fo­ot. Now she was pul­ling her­self thro­ugh.

  Ba­le lif­ted her bo­dily out of the win­dow and drop­ped her on the gro­und. He cuf­fed her on­ce aro­und the he­ad and she lay still. Ba­le stra­igh­te­ned up and lis­te­ned. Not­hing. No ot­her so­und. She had be­en the only one in the ho­use.

  Re­ac­hing down, he felt thro­ugh her clot­hes and up bet­we­en her legs for a kni­fe or ot­her con­ce­aled we­apon. When he was su­re that she was unar­med, he lif­ted her up li­ke a sack of gra­in, dra­ped her aro­und his sho­ul­ders and he­aded back to­wards the sa­lon.

  50